Deeper than Blood
by Epsarrow
Summary: Here is the TC (and perhaps other characters) whump collection! It will be updated periodically, as my muse allows. This is a collection of one-shots, chapters named after what they are about. There will be rewrites of episode moments (RW) and original stories (OS). Enjoy!
1. Aftermath (RW)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift.

Note: For the first story I will be doing a slight rewrite of season 3's "Unexpected' (aka the bomb episode). When I first read the episode description before watching it I was hopeful for some whump! Sadly it didn't deliver, but that doesn't mean I can't rewrite it! Enjoy!

* * *

TC went to show Mr. Neville where the restroom was, as he was wandering aimlessly in confusion, not sure where to go. While he was a regular he was also elderly, and likely suffered from an early form of Alzheimers, as he always ended up getting himself lost. The orderly had stopped to ask Kenny's friend if she had seen the woman. TC was just passing by the entrance when everything lit up into bright, scorching red. The wave slammed into him and he was hurled through the air, backwards. He was only partially aware of Mr. Neville being thrown to the ground beside him, Kenny, somewhere behind him, also falling. The glass had shattered, shards shooting out like bullets. Hot air crashed over him, smoke choking the air. His head bounced off the floor from the impact, hot pain flared across his body. He raised one arm over his face, the explosion ringing in his ears. Like a missile had struck, except this wasn't in a warzone, and it wasn't a missile, and there were innocents everywhere.

The shock faded as he rolled onto his side, trying to push himself up. He looked around as he did so, squinting into the smoke, coughing. At the nurse's station he saw Jordan rising, looking unhurt. Topher putting out flames with an extinguisher. Drew rushing forward to help a patient who was caught in the blast. Kenny was dazed, bleeding from his head, holding one arm in pain. TC staggered to his feet, pain sharp in one leg, coughing harder.

He turned towards the area of the explosion, where the orderly lay motionless on the ground with smoke rising from his body. He limped over to the kid, dropping down beside him to check for a pulse. It was hopeless, he knew, but he had to check anyway. He could see the shreds of the red backpack on the ground near the kid, and slowly pieced it together. The backpack was the bomb, and he had sent this kid out to die. TC closed his eyes for a moment, furious with himself, before he grabbed a white sheet and placed it over the body. Behind him he heard Kenny calling for his help, and he forced his leg to move despite the burning.

Lauren was badly injured, skin stripped from the bone of her lower leg, bleeding heavily. "Get me something to tie this off," he said, his voice hoarse from smoke, coughing again. Kenny grabbed him a tourniquet from a fallen shelf, and he quickly tightened it around her leg to slow the bleeding. She was in immense pain. "Get a gurney, we need to get her leg to the OR," he said, then starting coughing again as though more smoke had rushed into his chest.

Both he and Kenny struggled to move the gurney forward, through the glass debris. Blood was soaking through his pant leg, and he hadn't really been able to check _why_ he was bleeding, or why his leg wasn't working properly. As he staggered awkwardly over the change in the floor, Scott rushed to help them. He couldn't keep up, he didn't need to when Topher stopped them saying that SWAT was covering the entrances and they couldn't go up to the OR. TC pictured the red backpack again, and the new orderly's dead body lying on the ground. He felt a surge of guilt again, because it had been him to tell the kid to bring out the backpack instead of doing it himself. He imagined what would have happened if the backpack had been left there to explode at the nurse's station - how much _worse_ it could have been.

"You two stay out, you're both injured," Scott said when he and Kenny tried to enter to help take care of Lauren. Kenny argued, because she was _his_ friend. TC found himself distracted by Mr. Neville who was being pushed by on his own gurney, bleeding from glass injuries on his head and side. He distinctly remembered being right next to the older man when the bomb had gone off, and not actually having checked if he was okay. Jordan and Sharron were taking him in.

"How is he?" He asked, following them and helping to push the gurney. While Mr. Neville did seem okay, still talking jovial and explaining how he had been through worse earlier in his life, TC still wanted to make sure. Especially with the shock of the blast.

Jordan glanced up at him. "Glass embedded in his cuts, so we need to get that out before it gets infected." She then peered at him more closely, as if suddenly noticing something. "You should sit down and get checked out." They entered the room. TC limped stubbornly on, because he had seen in Shannon's eyes the look of fear. He had seen it many times before in war, on the faces of fresh soldiers who had just gotten their first taste of war. But this wasn't a war, and Shannon wasn't a soldier, and regular people should not _have_ to experience a terror in their own place of residence, their own workplace. She was always tough, stubborn. Didn't always get along with everyone, but who did? TC sure didn't, so he could sympathize a little bit with that.

"We can't change what happened but we can do the best we can to help these people," he said quietly. Shannon glanced at him, eyes slightly red as if trying not to tear up.

"I hope so," was her response.

Accepting Mr. Neville would be okay he stepped out into the chaos of the bomber being brought on with two gunshot wounds. _His_ patient. She met his eyes for a brief moment as she was pushed through, and they were sharp with pain and... sadness? It was as if he were looking into the eyes of someone who had lost everything and no longer had anything to lose, nothing to live for, and it left him feeling as if there would be no satisfactory conclusion to what had happened.

TC caught sight of an elderly lady stumbling down the hallway, dazed, a small trail of blood coming from the side of her head. Everyone was distracted, dealing with their own patients, with the swat teams, with families who were visiting and trying to find their loved ones. He approached carefully, ignoring the stiffness beginning to radiate from his aching leg - he would have time to deal with it later, once everyone was helped and all was figured out. "Ma'am, are you alright?" He spoke gently so his words wouldn't startle her, and the older lady only looked around in confusion, watery eyes barely focusing.

"I can't find Adam," she said in a whisper of a voice. "He was just here... I don't know where he went," she repeated herself a few times, confused and forlorn.

TC gently steered her toward a trauma room, speaking gently. "We'll find him, I promise. Let's get you in here and you can sit down and rest, okay? Is Adam your husband or someone else?" The older lady simply nodded, allowing him to guide her to the table and lie her down.

"He's my husband. He was right beside me, I thought..." She trailed off, staring into space. Her head injury wasn't extremely serious but she was likely in shock. He carefully wiped away the blood to reveal a shallow cut, stepping out only to find someone who could help find her husband. The unfortunate scenario was that the memory wasn't always clear, especially considering her age.

He approached Topher, who was trying his best to sort through patient files to get some semblance of order established. Who was there, who was missing, account for everyone who had come in. It wasn't very efficient. Off in the distance he noticed the orderly's body - he didn't even know the kids name - being moved. The nurse's who had been on strike came running in, somehow managing to establish some sort of calm with their presence, and with Molly's quick wit. He quietly interrupted Topher. "I have an elderly lady looking for her husband, Adam, in Trauma 3. If-" he trailed off at Molly's pointed glance.

"Frail old lady, looks confused?" At TC's nod she continued. "Her husband died a few years ago. Sometimes she forgets. I'll talk to her." She gave TC a once over. "You should sit down."

He stared after her in confusion. She was the second person to tell him that.

His leg and side were starting to itch, a minor annoyance compared to the throbbing that mainly originated in his leg. "She's right. Why haven't you gotten checked yet?" Topher asked, as people began moving down to a larger area.

"I'm fine. And there's still too much to do," he pointed out.

"You're not fine. I'm going to patch you up," Topher ignored his protest, "and then you can keep helping. I won't be able to stop you anyway," he added, giving TC a good-humored glare. He caved, only because Topher would probably follow him around and annoy him until he did so anyway. As he limped after Topher, he could feel the heat in his wounds spreading, like a fire. It was likely just his imagination, and there was likely a few good chunks of shrapnel that needed to be dug out. Still, as much as he kept his expression straight it was slightly unnerving.

He broke into a cough, reminding him of the burn in his throat. He sure didn't miss being out on the warzone with bombs going off in every direction, breathing in smoke and dust and debris with every breath.

Easing himself carefully onto the very edge of the table he felt an immediate surge or relief with his weight off his leg. He looked down at it, noting holes in the scrubs and a dark stain of blood covering a moderate area. A smaller patch of red had soaked into his shirt on his side, with a few holes in the fabric that marked the entrance of shrapnel. It probably consisted of glass and strips of metal from the damaged walls, and that, he reasoned, was the cause of the burning sensation. The moment's reprieve gave him time to check over himself, at least mentally. A minor pain in the back of his head reminded him he had smacked it off the ground. A dull ache in his back from the hard hit with the floor, and general aching across most of his body. The effect of the shock wave would probably leave him sore and bruised, but not seriously injured given that he wasn't right next to it.

He had to pull down the scrubs to get to the wounds, revealing many deep wounds with reddened skin. Topher frowned at it, at the blood that still oozed sluggishly from the deepest of injuries. "You shouldn't even be walking," he said, starting everything out with some lido. "Some of these are very deep. Your skin's also starting to react to it." That might explain the burning and tingling he had been feeling.

"It's been burning for a bit. Probably just irritation," he said with a shrug. Topher glared at him and he grinned sheepishly. His friend carefully pulled a long shard of glass from one of the deeper wounds and he flinched violently when it broke away, the anesthetic not quite having the depth to numb the pain fully.

"I know you feel the need to help everyone other than yourself but if you have a serious injury you can't help anyone," Topher said sharply, lying the blood-soaked shard on a tray and pressing a fresh towel against the wound. With the shard no longer plugging the wound it was bleeding freely once more. "And we have no idea what kind of bomb that was, or what kind of things were in it," he said, his voice even more frustrated. TC considered that and realized that he had neglected to think about a very important part. Bombs weren't just flames and shock waves that shattered glass. Sometimes people added objects to them, like nails or metals, to maximize injuries.

"Your're right," TC began, interrupted by another sharp pain as _something_ long but not glass-like was removed from another laceration. "But there were too many people who needed help."

For several moments they were arguing back and forth, arguments punctuated by another piece of shrapnel being dug from his leg, before moving onto his side which had taken much less of the hit. By the time it was over he felt shaky and cold, breaking out into a sweat. His wounds burned when washed out, but fortunately the stitches barely registered in his mind. When his brain caught up he saw that Topher had moved on and was checking his head, feeling at the hard lump that had formed when he hit the ground. He flinched away, the lump throbbing, but being nothing more than a hard knock it wasn't really that bad.

"I can't _make_ you take it easy but I'll still advise you too. Before you leave I need to give you a tetanus booster and an antibiotic just to be safe," Topher said, sighing slightly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But if anything gets worse, _say_ something."

TC agreed to do as told, if only to stop stressing out his friend. He remained still for a few minutes, letting the pain recede to the back of his mind and his body to recover. When he did finally stand he found himself unable to put much weight on his leg without it shaking dangerously, so he waited a little longer to adjust. In the background he could hear people talking, people yelling, people arguing. Rushing feet, the sounds of pages over the intercom. He hobbled forward, half his leg numb from the lido, along with his entire left side. It was awkward to move, and even more awkward to to walk out of the room with blood-soaked scrubs and a barely functioning limb.

He went around a bit, helped stitch people up, checked on Mr. Neville who was nicely bandaged and seemed to be relaxed. He checked on the older lady, Mrs. Owell, who simply looked around with sad, confused eyes.

And as the numbness from the lidocaine faded he was aware of a very disturbing sensation. It first it was an itch, minor, with burning and tingling. But the more the numbness wore off, the worse it got. The itching was so severe he had to stop, leaning himself against the wall and dug his fingers into edge to keep himself from ripping the bandages off and scratching his freshly stitched wounds open. His leg and side were simultaneously _on fire_ while being ravaged by an itching that made him sick to his stomach.

Over the speaker came an announcement letting people know they could evacuate if unhurt. _No. Something's wrong,_ he thought, but before he could say anything he broke into a series of painful coughs. He winced as he breathed in deeply, catching his breath. Around him people were moving, all trying to leave. But they _couldn't_ leave because something was terribly wrong. Topher had approached him, his face sharp with concern. "Tee, you okay? What's wrong?" He asked, He felt a hand on his back, rubbing gently, easing the knot of pressure in his chest. From the corner of his eye he saw Sharon and Paul rushing up, both looking worried.

"You need to lock down the ER," he rasped. "There was something in the bomb." And he couldn't explain what it was, coughing again, because he hadn't checked to see what his skin looked like now.

Topher didn't need anything other than that to tell the SWAT officers to lock down the building and not let anyone in or out. Before he could say anything else Paul and Shannon came up, eyes flicking between the two doctors. "Our patient has cutaneous anthrax lesions all over his body," Shannon reported.

Anthrax. He released a breath, because it could have been so much _worse_. Anthrax was treatable. It was a bacteria that only needed antibiotics. Not something extremely hard to treat, or hard to recognize, that could wipe out anyone who had gotten into contact with it. Sure, it wasn't _ideal_ , but it was better than some of many alternatives that had been going through his head.

"Anthrax? Are you sure?" Topher asked. TC could feel his friends hands on his scrubs, privately moving up the shirt to pull the bandage away. He could see the lesions, swollen, red, blackened. Weeping oozing from the edges of the wounds. His hand twitched as he fought the urge to scratch. Topher placed the bandage back, lowering the shirt. "The bomb was a dispersal system," he said quietly. "Everyone who was here could be infected. I'm going to get you on some antibiotics. Someone get Kenny, he also had a shrapnel wound," Topher said more loudly. TC found himself getting steered into an exam room, where he had he grabbed his own arms in an iron grip, so as to stop himself from digging at his skin.

"You okay?" Topher asked, readying an IV to begin antibiotics.

"Just feel like scratching my skin off," TC responded, teeth gritted slightly. His burning skin wasn't making the sensation any more tolerable.

"I'll get you something for that in a moment," Topher said, forcing TC's arm down to put the IV in. The needle going in, followed by the tube, barely even registered compared with everything else he had been feeling. The antibiotics would kill the bacteria, but it wouldn't be immediate. He forced himself to lay still as Topher pealed away the bandage again. "This will numb the area without irritating any open wounds," he said, about to apply the blocker when the door opened.

Scott entered, looking confused. "What's going on..." His eyes flickered to TC, and the painful, blackened lesions on his side. "Is that..."

"Anthrax. It was in the bomb," Topher said dismissively. "Everyone should get a dose of antibiotics just to be safe, there may be spores," he added. Scott nodded, glancing around once again before leaving. The numbness of the cream as instantaneous, soothing the itching and burning. He felt himself relax, just slightly.

"You need to stay here. Let the antibiotics work," Topher said.

He nodded, coughing again. He realized now he had pushed himself a little too far. His body felt exhausted, weak, fatigued.

He let himself rest, at least for a little bit.

* * *

End chapter note: Alright, that took off, longer than expected! But, beautifully, wonderfully, whumpy. Also I did some reading on anthrax and saw it took _days_ rather than _hours_ for symptoms to occur but since that's how it went in the episode I decided to leave it that way. So this is how it'll go - chapters will be random length. They can be rewrites (RW) of certain episodes, or original stories (OS) made up. I'll try to mix them up, so next episode will be an original! Also, I will be fully open to ideas from you guys as well (though I may not do a story for every idea, I can only write what I'm interested in, and I want to 'try' and keep everything rated T!). Let the whump series begin!


	2. Strep (OS)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift.

Note: I used to get sick with strep every _single_ year. If you've ever had strep throat you'll understand just how _miserable_ it is. The headache he experiences in this chapter is on _par_ with the awful one I get when I get strep! So this chapter will be about sickness! Also, your motorcycle accident idea is good, I'll put that in the next chapter! I might do something about the blood episode, soon, I'll make a list! Part of me wants to write about so what happened after season 4, and tie up the loose ends and end it with _everyone_ back home (including Ragosa, the s1 intern whose name I can't ever remember, and so on). Thanks for all the ideas, I'll keep them on a note so I can keep track!

* * *

He woke on Monday with a dry itch in the back of his throat. It was fall, and the incidence of colds and flu were rising in the general area. He hadn't been sick in awhile, but he still wanted nothing to do with something as annoying as a cold. He drank more water and hoped for the best. Over the course of the day he treated many people with the sniffles, one bleeder from a car accident, and a couple of concussed kids after a rowdy football game. Two days later the dryness became painful, the itch more pronounced, and it hurt to swallow. He went in, determined to ignore his symptoms and make sure no one else noticed them either. He carefully avoided trying to swallow when someone was nearby, and sipped frequently from his coffee, the warm liquid soothing to his painful throat. One of such times he was unaware of Topher and Jordan staring at him, their sharp eyes missing nothing, not even his slight wince when he swallowed.

"How long has your throat been hurting?" Jordan asked, making him jump as he finally noticed they were there. He looked up, his plan foiled because he never really could hide anything from them. It would also serve him no purpose to lie, since they wouldn't believe him. He put his coffee down, carefully, or as painless as possible, clearing his throat.

"Just today," he replied. "Probably caught a cold, it's been going around," he said matter-of-fact, shrugging off his symptoms. He didn't have a cough or sneeze, yet, or any other cold symptoms, but it had just started. Hopefully if he continued drinking more liquids it would help flush away the virus quickly.

"You should drink tea. It's better for that," Topher suggested.

TC shot him a glare. "I don't like tea," he growled, holding his coffee cup closer. Jordan smirked at him. He didn't have anything against tea drinkers, but he had never been fond of the flavor. Not hot tea, not iced tea, not even sweetened tea. To him, it all tasted like grass floating in water mixed with whatever flavors apparently tasted good. The problem being that tea, especially with lemon, was very helpful with sore throats and colds. He still hadn't reached the point where he was willing to taste tea in exchange for easing the symptoms. And hopefully, he would not reach that point at all.

"It's better than having a sore throat isn't it?" Topher tried to reason. But TC wasn't reasonable.

"No." He took another sip of his coffee, ignoring the discomfort when he did. Topher stared at him and sighed, walking out as if dealing with an teenager. Jordan moved over across from him, trying to fight a smile.

"Don't cough around me, I don't want it."

"I don't want it either," he complained, as he left. He finished off his coffee, break over, and prepared to finish off his shift as uneventfully as possible. He could feel glances from his colleagues as though checking to make sure he wasn't going to get any worse before the night was over, and put extra care into making sure his voice didn't rasp when he spoke. Speaking would not improve the situation, but he couldn't exactly _not_ talk while working as a doctor.

By the time his shift was over he felt a little worse. Tired, the pain in his throat having grown but not significantly so. Probably just from working instead of resting. He skipped out on the after work party, and the subsequent after work breakfast, and simply opted to go home and sleep. If anyone was surprised they didn't show it, and he got on his bike and headed straight home, imagining taking a nyquil and going straight to sleep. It wasn't exactly night anymore but it would serve the same purpose. Once home he grabbed the pill, downed it in one painful gulp, and put himself to bed, phone on the table. Hopefully no one would bother him during the night and make it hard for him to sleep.

His dream was strange. He was lying on his back, unable to move, on a board. Above him was a bright light, so bright it seemed to blaze through his eyeballs and burn into the back of his head. His brain felt like lava, hot and liquid, and someone was driving a spike into his head. His stomach lurched, and on the wall was a counter, measuring the level of his nausea. As the third spike was driving into his skull he jolted awake, gasping. It wasn't a usual dream. He had nightmares, but they were of war, or Thad, or, more frequently, a combination. They left him feeling angry or scared as if he was still in a warzone, unable to pull himself out of the state of mind. This dream, on the other hand, only left him feeling disoriented. His head was in a severe amount of pain, as if it really was on fire. He could feel nausea swirling in his stomach, and when he swallowed reflexively against the nausea, the pain in his throat made itself known. It was as if he had swallowed a glass, and it had cut up his throat on the way down.

He lay motionless, hoping the pain in his head would fade, so that he might be willing to get up and head to the bathroom before he was sick. It didn't fade, not one bit. So he braved it and sat up, and groaned in pain as the _agony_ in his head erupted worse. He could practically feel his brain sloshing in his skull, nothing more than a liquid mess in the midst of the pain. He grabbed at his head, breathing heavily. Fortunately the sensation faded, leaving him back on the level of the tremendous pain it had been when he woke up. Tremendous, but compared with _that_ , tolerable. He stood, slowly, carefully, but the rush of pain still came, nearly sending him reeling to the floor.

He supported himself with one arm on a table, and with the other, grabbed a handful of his hair and squeezed, as if the pressure would be any help. He waited, frozen to the spot until it returned to that awful baseline, and then he took slow, weak steps forward. The bathroom seemed an impossible distance from where he was. He couldn't recall ever feeling so _awful_ \- not from sickness, anyway. He felt coldness rippling across his skin, but he kept going forward until he got to the bathroom.

Dropping to the floor on his knees next to the Porcelain God was a terrible idea, as even going down brought back that horrible agony into his head, brain matter sloshing around dangerously. His stomach rolled, and he was sick, that in turn waking the terrible pain in his throat. He leaned there for a long moment, just feeling generally shitty, surprised at how quickly he had gone from a mild, sore throat to _fucking awful_. If it wasn't for the fact he was thirsty, he would have been content to just huddle up on the bathroom floor and not move ever again, so at least he wouldn't have to feel that pain. But as it was, he forced himself to stand, grabbing for his head automatically, waiting for the sensation to pass. It did - thankfully. If it didn't he'd probably be crawling to his nightstand to call Topher and tell him he was dying.

He made it to the kitchen, eyes half closed, wishing he had ginger ale instead of just water. Sipping, he winced at the burn, but compared to the headache that was tolerable. He made it back to his bed, and deciding he'd rather have one bout of pain than two, he dropped straight down onto it. When it ebbed he untangled his sheets, shivering, and fell into a fitful sleep.

Time was immeasurable. At some point his phone vibrated, and he swatted weakly at the stand trying to grab it, but ultimately gave up when he couldn't find it. He was too exhausted, too miserable, bother raising his head and answering it. It vibrated a few more times, some time apart, but he didn't answer it those times either. It was probably Topher, wondering why he wasn't at work yet. It was night time, wasn't it? He wasn't even sure, and he found he didn't care and simply crushed his head into his pillow and dozed off again.

He woke once more, feeling no better or worse, to the sound of someone's voice talking to him. A hand grabbed his shoulder, nudging him gently. He groaned, curling up on himself. "Go away," he slurred roughly, voice sharp with pain.

"Tee? Can you hear me?" It sounded like Topher. He nodded, wishing he hadn't afterwards.

"He has a fever," that sounded like Jordan. Of course, after he didn't show up to work or answer their calls they probably got worried that he died in his sleep or something. He wanted to tell them he was fine, and it was just a really bad headache and a sore throat, but all that came out was an incoherent mumble and he his throat burning like fire. He pressed on arm on his head, wishing he could _squeeze_ the molten lava that had replaced his brain out of his ears.

"Well it's definitely not just a cold. Progressed very quickly, so maybe it's strep," Jordan was saying. He listened to their voices in the background, still unwilling to open his eyes or do anything more than lie completely still. Any movement would just hurt.

"Can you roll over so I can do a strep test?" Topher was asking.

"You carry that stuff around with you everywhere you go?"

He could practically feel Topher staring at Jordan. "No, I just had a feeling I should bring them..."

Someone nudged him again, and he tried to weakly swat at the hands. He had no interest in rolling over, or moving whatsoever. He especially had no interest in having a glorified q-tip pressing into the back of his very painful and very swollen throat. He knew it would be necessary, but his pain-addled mind had locked down to the point he only wanted to rest and hope they pain faded on its own. He pressed his hands against his head, squeezing at it, before rolling onto his back, giving in to the persistence. He managed not to gag during the swab, but it made the tender swollen flesh of his throat react painfully. When Topher - he assumed it was Topher - left, he turned his head to the side, using one hand to press down on his ear, eyes squeezed tightly together.

He would take his brains getting knocked around with a concussion over this any day.

* * *

 **Jordan POV**

She had seen TC injured, bloodied, beaten. She had seen him in the throws of a violet nightmare, hardly able to remember where he was 10 minutes after waking. But never, not once, could she recall seeing him so _miserably_ sick. He didn't get sick often. In fact, it was a pretty rare occurrence and she didn't quite know how he managed to avoid a cold for three years straight. It seemed he was making up for that now, lying motionless in his bed, shivering and sweating with fever, seemingly crippled by a terrible headache. His stillness worried her. It was as if movement itself was enough to make it worse. Strep had varying effects on people, but she'd never really known him to go down with it.

There was a glass of almost full water at the edge of his night table. His phone, with all its missing messages, was nearby. With a quiet sigh, she picked up the glass of water. "Can you sit up? You should drink some water," she said quietly, less the sound of her voice would make his headache worse. For a moment he didn't reply at all and she wondered if he had dozed off, but then he stirred slightly.

"No." His voice was barely audible, and he made no effort to speak more or even move at all.

"I can help you," she said gently, assuming he was simply too exhausted or too weak to sit up on his own. Instead, he moved the arm around his head down.

"No, wait a moment." He seemed to tense for a moment before cautiously sitting up. Immediately he made a quiet, strangled sound, grabbing at his head as though suddenly in great pain. Carefully she reached out, feeling the tension, wire-taught in his body. If he was having worse head pain when he changed position then that was why he had made no move to get up, or really make any movement at all. She felt guilty for making him sit up in the first place.

"I'm sorry," she said in a whisper, gently rubbing his back, until the tension began to ease and seemed to recover. He still looked unfocused, but accepted the water which she handed to him, sipping cautiously. He winced each time, and passed the water back having barely drank anything at all.

He carefully eased back down, going taut with pain even with that movement.

"Do you want any soup, or anything?" She was quite at a loss on what to do, which was, in and of itself, frustrating. She was a doctor after all, but there was nothing she could do other than wait and hope the test came back and they could get him on antibiotics quickly. Fortunately, strep was one of the few things that responded quickly, as opposed to taking some time for the 'medicine to kick in', so to say. Which left her basically unable to do anything other than try to make him feel comfortable but that seemed, for the time being, impossible, since all he could do was lay down and try not to make any movements.

"No thanks... hard to swallow." He seemed to curl into himself, shivering, and Jordan decided that while she couldn't do much more, she wouldn't let him lie there alone.

Pulling his blanket over his prone form she climbed into his bed beside him, gently brushing her fingers across his forehead, feeling the clamminess of his skin. Later, when Topher arrived back with a positive test result and antibiotics, he didn't even ask.

* * *

End chapter note: So basically: strep is miserable. Also I call that headache "slosh brain". It's obviously very scientific but the term hasn't taken off but hey, I'll still call it that! Next up we'll be swinging another direction with an OS motorcycle crash. I hope you enjoy the story. And future whump to come!


	3. Bike Crash (OS)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift.

Note: I want good whumpage in the motorcycle accident. Injury, damage, but not death. So I did a little check up on motorcycle accidents and which ones were fatal/why to avoid those. It occurred to me while writing this that I've never posted via Scott's POV and I really should since he and TC have such an interesting character complex. Will probably set this around season 2 for the maximum awkwardness between them.

* * *

Riding his motorcycle was soothing. The gentle hum of the engine, the wind gently brushing at his clothes. The freedom to cross road and land, smaller than a vehicle. While some people did go for joyrides in their cars and trucks, he had no such interest. To him, there was little fun in riding in a car. The motorcycle on the other hand, was much different. Maybe the fact it was his brother's bike made it more of an emotional connection to him, but he also felt more at home on the bike than in any other vehicle. Trucks were too big, too heavy, unable to get in small spaces and hitting small bumps with enough force to knock out someone's teeth. Cars, while not as large as trucks, suffered similarly. It wasn't free. The wind didn't rush past, the gentle hum wasn't so gentle. Some of his friends may not share his sentiments but he would choose his bike over a car any day of the week.

He was riding in to work, the sun already setting behind the tall buildings. Streetlights flicked on as the darkness grew, and soon the stars would be visible. The most peaceful moments of the day were driving in, and presuming nothing awful happened during the shift, driving home. The peace, unfortunately, shattered by a douchebag. A large black truck had pulled up behind him at a red light, revving its engine impatiently. He scowled at it through his mirror.

Jackasses on the road were everywhere, and he had always known that. And in the eyes of a truck, a motorcycle was a small obstacle, an easy target to annoy, because a motorcycle could not win against a truck. A motorcycle couldn't even win against itself. He knew the risks of riding. Accidents were often fatal or resulted in serious injuries due to the lack of protective measures, like airbags and sheets of metal in a vehicle. He tried to ride safe, though. He wore his helmet, he wore some physical padding, to soften the impact with the ground if he had to peel out. He drove carefully and kept his eye on the road. He wasn't quite interested in becoming another statistic.

The light turned green, and he went forward, ignoring the blare of the truck's horn because he hadn't moved within the same second the light turned. He may have a history of getting into fights but he would be damned if he was going to get involved in road rage.

He did the smart thing, pulling off into a driveway and allowing the truck to pass, while it blared its horn once more and he could see the degenerate occupants leering out the window. When the road was clear, he pulled out again. The sun was setting fully, and he would be late for work. But he usually was, so it wouldn't be that big of a deal, unless someone was in a bad mood. He sped up slightly, going 50 in a 45, but even then it was still a clear stretch on his side ahead. Until a child suddenly darted out from a car parked at the edge of the road, and he tried to brake, heart racing. He wouldn't be able to stop in time. He knew it. If he tried to drop the bike it would lurch up and still hit the child, leaving only one, less than ideal option. He managed to cut the wheel, skirting the child who looked shocked, as if unaware they had just _run out into the damn road_ , and swerved out in front of an oncoming car. There wasn't even time to think.

The car hit at a glancing angle. If it had hit straight on it probably would have killed him instantly. Even so, he felt a red hot pain flare, and was aware of his loss of control as his bike flew across the end of the road and it surged forward, down the steep incline leading to a small wooded area. As the bike lurched violently and his arms stopped responding he flew over the handlebars, smacking into something hard before landing in a heap on the hard earth, the bike shooting mercifully past him instead of running him over.

For a brief moment he lay face down on the grass, too stunned to do anything at all. His memory was like a puzzle, missing the pieces just preceding. There had been a child, right? Had he missed? The thought gave him focus, grounding him in reality. He had to get up, and check and make sure the kid was okay. But when he tried to push himself up pain seared him, from his right leg up to his right arm. He collapsed, unable to so much as lift himself from the ground, wincing as his movements broke through the shock that had settled. Aware of it, it was all he could do not to completely lose himself to it. The car. Right, the _car._

He lifted his head slightly, aware that his right shoulder wasn't responsive, but also radiated agonizing pain. He tried to move his uninjured left arm over, wincing at the pain in his chest when he shifted. He went still again, the pain stabbing through him like knives.

"Oh my God, please be alive!" He heard a woman's voice from somewhere above, but couldn't find the strength to move. He mumbled weakly in response, hearing her panic. "Oh thank God," she exclaimed, somehow having managed to hear his quiet mumble over the sound of her panicked breathing. "I should have slowed down when I saw the kid in case he ran out but I didn't think. I called for help, can you move?" To punctuate her question she tried to roll him over, and his body immediately flared with pain, making him cry out and jerk weakly from her hands. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Her voice came out as a squeak and he could almost imagine her recoiling away in horror if he wasn't so distracted by the complaints of his own body.

"Don't.. worry about it. Better not to move," he said hoarsely. He just wanted to close his eyes and then wake up and be at home in his bed. He couldn't hardly believe what had happened, having never been in an accident. It just didn't happen.

He must have lost consciousness, because he was suddenly aware of someone yelling at him and he tried to focus on the voice. It was the woman again. "Please don't die! He won't wake up, what do I do?" Was she talking to him? He wasn't quite sure anymore, but he was more than sure he wouldn't be able to form an adequate reply, with his entire body falling into the cold embrace of shock. His limbs, even the functioning ones, were heavy. The pain was fading only to be replaced by a general feeling of weakness. Somewhere in the back of his mind something told him that wasn't a good thing, but for now he was happy not to be overrun by pain. He was becoming aware of an annoying sound, loud and blaring and obnoxious. It took a stupidly long time for him to recognize it for what it was. A siren. An ambulance siren.

People spoke, a jumble of words. He wondered dimly if he had knocked his head, but that couldn't be right. His helmet was still on. It was why he couldn't hear well, probably. There were hands on him, and his helmet slid off his head. Something was placed around his neck. A brace, so moving him wouldn't hurt his spine. But it would hurt everything else and he couldn't even voice it, his voice unwilling to work for him.

Being rolled over wasn't quite as agonizing as he expected, his body mostly numb, but he still felt a flare of pain and stirred weakly. He recognized Gwen, who looked more concerned than he had ever seen her. "Hang on Tee, just relax."

Wasn't he relaxed? He didn't think he was moving, and if he was it wasn't from his own choice. He became aware that he was shaking, but he wasn't able to stop himself when he tried. Someone squeezed his shoulder in what should have been a reassuring gesture, but it was the _wrong_ shoulder and the pain broke through the numbness and he recoiled away. He felt the sudden urge to punch the person who did it, if he could get the energy to do so, or stay focused for more than a few seconds at a time.

But then he was in the ambulance and he couldn't remember how he even got inside. The sirens weren't as loud now because of the cab, but they were still annoyingly repetitive. The bumps in the road made him ache, and he caught clips of conversation, barely understandable, in between blanks.

* * *

 **Scott POV**

The doors to the ER burst open as Gwen helped push in another patient. "Motorcycle accident," she announced, and he came walking over. She looked up at him, her expression serious. "It's TC," she said it quietly, so as not to catch the attention of everyone else in the ER. He stopped to stare at her, immediately disbelieving, before deciding to check for himself. And sure enough, it was him, lying motionless on the gurney. He looked surprisingly well for having been in a motorcycle accident, since many of them ended up so severely injured that they died. "In and out of consciousness, no head injury."

He nodded. "How'd this happen?" He asked. TC may not be the best decision maker in terms of health and getting himself into trouble but he'd never gotten himself into an accident. Whenever Scott had been in the same car as him he'd always known him to be a careful driver.

"According to the driver, a kid ran out in front of his bike, chasing something. He had to swerve to avoid the kid and she hit him," Gwen said. That made sense, in a way. He would put aside his own safety to protect a kid. He couldn't even count how many accidents were caused by kids running out in front of cars. Far, far too many. But really, what could be done? Put fencing up around every home, between the house and the road? They would still run down the driveway. He pushed the thought away. Leave the law-making to law-makers. He had work to do.

He got right to it. Thankfully Jordan wasn't in yet, running late. It would be very difficult to try to explain what was going on, since she cared so much for him. As he and a few nurses pushed the gurney in, Topher came running up, most likely having gotten the news from Gwen.

"How is he?" Topher asks, his face dark with worry for his friend, already preparing to help.

"No head injury, he's breathing on his own." A nurse has begun with the heart monitor and blood pressure cuff, and he sees his vitals, although slightly high, are stable. "Let's get this off and check his injuries," he said. He had undressed many patients before, but he felt momentarily uncomfortable at the thought of removing the jacket and shirt of someone he worked with. Topher, in the meantime, seemed to be familiar with this aspect at least and was already working on stripping off the jacket. As soon as he tried to pull off the right sleeve TC jerked awake with a cry of pain. Topher froze for a moment, but when TC's eyes neither focused or stayed open he carefully and swiftly removed the jacket.

"It'll be better to cut the shirt," Topher said. Because if the minor motion of his arm being moved woke him up, moving the entire limb might just make him wake up fully and punch someone. Scott was very familiar with TC punching things. He was turning to get an IV ready to sedate if necessary when he heard Topher's slight intake of breath. "That looks like it hurts." He turned to see dark bruising making a line down his chest and abdomen. But what stood out more starkly was the very obviously broken shoulder, bone misshapen. Another trail of discoloration lined down his right side, and he determined since he was struck on the right side by the car he would likely be most injured on that side.

"We need an x-ray of that, and check his leg." Scott ordered, slipping in the IV. He watched as TC's slight movements relaxed and he slipped unconscious. They weren't exactly close but he was struggling to keep focused, wondering just how badly injured he was.

"More bruising on his leg, possible hip injury," Topher reported.

This wasn't going to be a fun night.

* * *

 **TC POV**

The sirens had been replaced by an annoying beep. It bored into his unconsciousness, trickling into the background of all the other noises. Clips of sound and flashes of memory, all set up behind a steady beeping. It was what made him open his eyes, pulling him from the quiet, painless area he had been in. If he had known his consciousness would be anything but quiet and painless he would have tried to stay away from it longer. As much as he tried to figure out _why_ he was in pain, he couldn't quite pull together enough threads of memory. Instead he forced his eyes open, squinting at the light. At least in his dreams it had been dark and peaceful, not blinding.

As his eyes adjusted he glanced around the room, aware of sharp pains in his shoulder and hip. Standing in his room was the _last_ person he expected to see. Well, maybe second last, since Ragosa would have won the first spot. Scott. His 'frenemy' in which neither of them could stand to be in the same room together for more than a few minutes without arguing about something.

Glimpses of memory wedged into his mind. Flashing lights, faces swimming in and out of focus. Rough hands and yelling.

He tried to shift, wincing slightly. His right side seemed to be exceptionally sore, and there was a band of pain down his chest. He quickly became aware that he was wearing a hospital gown, as if to add insult to injury. His movement caught the attention the other man in the room, who seemed momentarily surprised to see him awake. TC had a tendency not to fit in the general rules of sedation, if his previous encounters with serious injury had been any evidence.

"You... you got off surprisingly well for being in a motorcycle accident." Scott's words were awkward at best, as if he had wanted to say something else but changed his mind.

TC frowned, wracking his brain for a moment. The accident. Why was it so hard to remember? He had a strange sense that he had gone through this before, trying to remember this event that seemed to elude him. A kid flashed into his mind, and then a car. And then a tree flying towards him - or was it him that flew towards the tree? And then writhing in agony on the ground while a terrified woman kept apologizing and trying to help which only made things worse. And while it came clear he still couldn't remember _what_ had happened between the kid and the car, and he swallowed a sudden lump in his throat, suddenly afraid he may have killed someone.

"The kid?" His throat felt dry and it made his voice crack, but at least it was audible.

"Fine. Apparently you swerved in front of a car going 40 so you wouldn't hit the kid," Scott added. TC was relieved at that. He hadn't hurt anyone, and that was okay.

"Anyway, just wanted to say I'm glad you're okay... you scared us a bit." The words seem to be drawn out of him as if he was forcing them to go, clearly feeling the same level of awkwardness that TC currently felt just hearing it. "I'll let Jordan know you're awake." And he quickly left the room.

TC started to smile, until the words caught up with him and he realized he'd have a very pissed off Jordan coming in telling him 'I told you so!' Because it wasn't even a week ago that he had gotten his bike back.

* * *

End chapter note: Yay for awkwardness. And whump. And finally got around to getting a Scott POV in one of my stories - I'll have to get Ragosa sometime. Coming up next is a slightly different take on _Fog of War_ , followed by the wonderfully gruesome Impalation, and then I might do a quick story about how Drew ended up on the ground at the end of S4 and a little after. Also, I might do another vent-fight rewrite, since I had another idea of how that all could have gone down... thanks for reading!


	4. Blood Loss (RW)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift.

Note: I loved the Fog of War episode... but it definitely needs a little more... whump. Mainly because heavy blood loss isn't just weakness and losing consciousness... it's also headaches and nausea. And let's not forget Ana, who had a gun on her, but didn't use it? So let's change that a bit. Obviously she can't shoot him or anything or he'd die with that kind of blood loss but we can still have some fun!

* * *

For awhile he felt fine. He knew that would change as soon as he hit the magic percent of blood loss, so he kept helping Paul while his head was still clear. While he felt slightly uncomfortable with Jordan's anger at him, knowing she did not approve of him doing this for a coyote, he would do what he had to to save any patient. That was his job, and if it meant a little discomfort, he would do it. He tried to ignore the odd sensation of blood flowing from his arm, and instead, focused on the rise and fall of the patient's chest. As long as it rose and fell, then everything would be going alright. Across the room the unconscious girl was also breathing, aided by the painful but ultimately life-saving hook in her tongue and lip. He felt guilty about that, but surely it was better than being dead.

He couldn't help but feel that something was wrong. Maybe it was Edward's death, despite having been deemed stable and relatively okay. TC trusted Paul when he said Edward had been perfectly fine, and there was absolutely no reason for him to have died suddenly. Unless he had an underlying defect that led to instantly dying, something was wrong and it was bothering him. But he couldn't think of what, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

Ana was quiet, but given she was a traumatized victim of trafficking, he couldn't really fault her with that. She simply sat in her own corner, way from the dead body, and away from her unconscious friend.

It wasn't long after than he began to feel slightly woozy. The blood kept flowing in a constant stream, but he didn't dare do anything to slow its flow for risk of killing Hector. He knew Jordan might share different concerns but for now she was willing to go along with his plan, albeit, grudgingly. Shortly after the nausea started, but it was mild, more of an ache in his stomach than a warning of being sick. And as long as he didn't make sudden movements or try to stand, it would stay that way. He swept his gaze across the room, even now alert for any sign of trouble. He may not be able to determine quite why he felt something was wrong, something more than his blood running from him, but he was going to keep an eye on things. Sometimes he kept meeting Ana's gaze as she flitted hers between the floor and everyone else.

He tried to keep his discomfort off his face so they wouldn't worry, but as his head began to hurt and beads of sweat formed on his forehead, there was only so much he could hide. Jordan noticed first, shooting him a worried glance.

"You should..." Her words were interrupted by the girl suddenly gaining consciousness, crying out and grabbing at the hook in panic. Paul ran towards her, trying to stop her, but his actions were in vain. She pulled out the hook with resounding strength, gasping and immediately beginning to bleed. _Shit,_ he thought, because that hook was the only thing that was helping her breathe properly, and now she had pulled it out and getting it _back in_ while she was conscious would be a real treat.

"Ana es la coyote," were the words that flooded from her mouth.

He and Jordan both froze at the words, whereas Paul didn't seem to notice, still trying to quell her panic. Ana, meanwhile, had looked up, eyes wide with fear. Fear that quickly became mock fear, as she wiped it from her face, replacing that mask with a sneer. She looked cold, hostile, angry, as she stood, eyes finding the struggling girl who repeated the words a few more times before Paul managed to calm her down. Ana spoke, so quickly in Spanish that he couldn't even guess what she had said, but the words struck like a whip and the other girl's face turned white in terror.

"You?" Jordan asked, stepping towards Ana, looking surprised. Perhaps feeling a slight bit of guilt for having not cared if Hector lived or not.

At once Ana's eyes snapped up, and he could practically _feel_ the danger in the air. Like the calm before the bomb went off, or that moment before the crack of a rifle. "Wait!" He hissed aloud, and thankfully, Jordan listened, stopping at once. A moment later the gun was out, as Ana glared distastefully around at everyone.

How suddenly someone can change.

"Give me a reason and I will kill all of you," she said, her voice having a hard edge that wasn't there before. No one said anything, just looking on in amazement. TC forced himself to slowly, carefully stand, mindful of the tube. He pulled Jordan back as she had seemingly frozen to the spot, and quickly found his head spinning, legs shaking as he tried to remain standing. Ana slowly walked around the edge of the room, gun pointed ahead, unwavering. Unafraid, dangerous. She glanced down at Hector, unconscious and close to death.

"Why would you help him if you thought he was the coyote?" She asked, staring at TC who met her frosty gaze without flinching. It wouldn't be the first gun he stared down.

"Because I help people regardless of what they've done," he said. It was now clear why she had not wanted to offer her blood for Hector, while also showing some kind of guilty curiosity when they began to test their own.

He cautiously moved closer, just one step. "You don't want them to die, do you?"

But in the back of his mind he was able to connect the dots. She had killed Edward. To keep her secret? But why, if she had the gun and the upper hand? Unless she had not planned on any of this to happen, playing the victim so she could make a smooth escape. And the other girl had ruined her plans.

"Maybe I do," she snapped.

He could feel his heart starting to race, but it wasn't from the stress of nerves. His vision was blurring, and he stepped uneasily sideways, suddenly struggling to keep his balance. As he did he felt a sharp pain against the back of his head and he lost his battle with the growing weakness in his legs, stumbling forward. As his vision grayed out he found himself falling, someone catching him before he hit the floor. As the ringing in his ears grew louder he realized she had _hit_ him, perhaps seeing his step forward as a threat. Growing fatigue weighed him down as he was pushed onto his back and his blurry vision focused slightly on Jordan.

"Tee, you okay?" She was saying, feeling around the back of his head for the spot.

"Just dizzy," he lied. The mild headache had unfortunately expanded into a rather annoying one, thanks to the hit. His nausea had increased as well, but still wasn't at "throwing up" level. He felt cold, weak and sweaty, and he knew it was the blood loss creeping up, losing too much. Fatigue gripped his body tightly, head thrumming with the rhythmic beat of his heart. He slowly became aware that Ana was gone. "Where is she?"

"She bolted. Probably decided to leave before everyone showed up." He could hear stuff being shuffled in the background, objects clinking together, but he didn't bother moving his head and simply stared up at the ceiling, focusing on controlling his breathing and simply relaxing. The next stage of blood loss wasn't going to be any more fun than the current, and there was only so much time. "Can you move a little? It should help if we can prop your legs up," Jordan said, as Paul came into view. The younger doctor looked nervous, but the guilt from before had faded. Because he now knew for certain that he hadn't missed something.

"Yeah, sure." He sat up slowly, trying to spin himself around, so he would be facing towards the glass counter rather than away. As he did a wave of dizziness crashed over, blurring his vision. Rising was a mistake, he knew, as the floor came close. Someone stopped him from falling down all the way, helping to spin him completely before carefully lying him down.

The dizziness began to fade when he was fully down again, and he managed to focus a slightly uneasy gaze on two worried faces.

"I'm alright, just got really woozy," he said offhandedly.

"You have already lost a lot of blood, and we don't know how far they are. It's dangerous to keep going," Jordan said quietly, although her voice lacked the obvious disdain for the patient that it had before. Now that the patient was an innocent. He understood, though. It could be hard to help people who did horrible things, who abducted people, who hurt others on purpose, who killed. But he was a doctor, not a cop, and it wasn't _his_ job to determine who was or wasn't worthy of his care. Although he'd run into roadblocks in the past when it came to giving equal treatment to a drunk driver who killed a couple of kids in an accident, out here, it was different.

And as it turned out, people lied.

"If I stop now, he'll die," TC replied stubbornly. "I'll be fine." He knew no matter how many times he repeated the mantra that no one would believe it. For now he could only lay still and hope the paramedics got there on time to save the lives of everyone.

Over a period of time that felt like a long time, but was probably only 10 minutes, the nausea and dizziness grew exponentially, feeding off one another. Head pounding, too weak to even lift his hand, he suddenly found himself telling Paul stories of a time long past. His eyes drifted closed as he spoke, the absence of blinding lights easing his headache. And without his vision blurring or floating around he wouldn't be quite so nauseous. A pink sweater flashed into his mind. Or was it purple? A vague red? Despite the fact he felt a sheen of sweat across his body, he was also aware of being cold. Immensely cold, shivering, tired.

"Pulse dropped," for a brief moment in time he heard words but they had no meaning. Then he was able to focus again, as if awareness and confusion filtered in and out in waves.

"Tee, you with us?" Those words he understood.

"Yeah," he replied, still keeping his eyes closed. He wasn't sure he would be able to open them even if he wanted to, with his eyelids weighing down heavily. Strangely, as heavy as the rest of his body. His muscles _ached_ , as if reporting to his brain that they didn't have enough oxygen to support them, because there wasn't enough blood to go around.

"If they aren't here soon I'll need to cut the line."

"He'll die," he whispered in response, but even then he wouldn't have the ability to stop her if that was what she chose.

"If we don't, you will too."

And he didn't have a response for that.

The next minutes slipped into delirium and he lay in between consciousness, mumbling inaudibly and hardly aware of anything at all. When his awareness next returned, bringing with it the sensation of his pounding head and sore muscles and coldness. But it also brought the sound of sirens. They had been found. He felt tension he hadn't previously been aware of melting within him.

"What in the holy hell?" He was sure that was Gwen.

"It's a long story."

After that, he lost consciousness once more, but this time it came after knowing everything would be okay.

* * *

End chapter note: Whew. As far as the schedule goes: Impalation, followed by a quick Drew fic on what happened, and then. well. I'll let that be a surprise, since it'll be my own idea. Glad to see people are enjoying the stories! As for the impalation it will be an original story, because 'although' there are plenty of episodes to choose from none of them really sat well with me, and I want to set it up myself.


	5. Impaled (OS)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift.

Note: I was initially going to do a rewrite of that scene where the tower fell and nearly impaled him (over his throat) but was going to change where it hit, but I decided I wanted a completely different setting. And rebar. Ahhh rebar. Michael's (Ragosa) tiny part was just to clarify what happened, but I hope to get him in the series more! Thanks for reading!

* * *

"We're going in there?"

TC stared at the decrepit building, silently agreeing with Michael's skeptical assessment. Although he wouldn't say it out loud, if it wasn't for the injured patient inside he wouldn't be going anywhere near it. The old building had seen better days, but after the previous storm several rooms had caved in. The patient was trapped under some rubble, and they needed to stabilize her for transport before they could move it, less she bleed to death. The building looked like a swift room would finish knocking it down, and it creaked ominously in the stale night air. It was only a single story, but there was a basement. Fortunately they were working on stabilizing the first floor already, and hopefully no one would get killed in an unsuspecting loss of structure.

"We've been in worse!" Was what TC said instead, walking with forced calm into the structure. This would end up being Michael's first field visit, since he had at last obtained his license and was no longer an assistant. Hopefully it would be memorable in a _good_ way. The other man sighed, walking cautiously. As boards creaked under his feet he forced himself to step lightly. He did not want to fall through the floor and land spectacularly on a bunch of tools.

"What happens if everything falls down?" Ragosa asked, as some sheet-rock from the ceiling pelted down.

"Fetal position, cover your head, and pray," TC replied. Which wouldn't quite stop either of them from getting crushed to death under piles of heavy boards, but if only a small amount of the ceiling collapsed it would prevent a major head injury. Or various other injuries from being smacked by debris.

Speaking of debris, he caught sight of the women trapped, with firefighters around her trying to keep her safe and calm. One of her legs was pinned under a caved in wall, and he could see the blood leaking out underneath. Quickly moving forward he dropped down on his knees next to her. She was bleeding from her head, and one of her arms was twisted at the elbow. Her face was pale, eyes wide, breathing hard from shock.

"Hey, I'm Dr. Callahan, and this is Dr. Ragosa," he nodded towards Michael who had come up as well. "We're going to help you."

There was no visible reaction or any sign that she had heard him. "Stabilize her neck," he said, immediately beginning to get a tourniquet to wrap around her upper thigh. If she was bleeding badly, moving the debris would remove the pressure that was slowing the bleeding and she could die very quickly. She made a slight twitch, but otherwise, she did not react. They needed to move quickly and get her out before the shock took her. The machinery was loud, and she startled. He leaned over her cautiously, not wanting to move in case he needed to clamp her leg, but also trying to protect her from anything that went flying. Chips of wood bounced off his jacket, and he tucked his head away, awkwardly, at the loudness. The floor seemed to shake beneath him. As they cut and slid beams and sheet-rock she lurched into consciousness, driven by the pain, screaming.

The damage too her leg was severe, but not irreparable, if they got her out quickly. As soon as she was free he quickly got to work wrapping up the open bleed to stem the blood flow as much as possible.

"Let's get her out of here, she needs to get to the hospital as quickly as possible," he called over the sound of creaking and falling objects. The paramedics that had followed them quickly loaded her on the stretcher. As they did, a strange sound caught his attention. A wail, coming from a room over. He shared a look with Ragosa who had apparently heard the sound as well. As they carried her out he went on, checking for another victim.

Instead, he simply found broken pipes whistling noisily into the air.

"TC, we need to go!" Ragosa called, and he turned to get out, sure there was no one else in the house.

"Just some pipes," he reported, and they began to follow the others out who had already reached the door. As they did, the floor made an ominous cracking sound, and the very house seemed to lurch. And then the floor they were standing on fell away beneath them.

Falling was brief, and he only managed to cover his head to protect himself from everything that was going to rain down before he hit something, followed quickly by the floor.

Unconsciousness was brief. He woke wincing as he pushed dirt and pieces of wood off himself. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he became aware of the situation, and as if he needed that awareness to fully understand, the pain hit. Jutting out of his right side, saturated with blood, was about a foot of rebar. The rest was beneath him, probably lodged into the floor he lay on. He groaned, curling into himself as his breathing picked up. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move. Hot agony glared down his side and he coughed, feeling liquid in his mouth. He grabbed at his side but didn't dare touch it, his shirt red with blood. He didn't dare move, considering the situation, but it felt so incredibly unnaturally _wrong_ to have this foreign object impaling his side.

He tried not to gasp hoarsely for air, but it was quite hard considering the sheer amount of pain, and the sensation that he wasn't able to get enough air. He was nearly certain part of the rebar had tore into his lung, but he wasn't sure how far the damage was. The lung would collapse the instant the rebar was no longer _mostly_ plugging the wound. And that meant he didn't dare move and cause more injury that would make it collapse any sooner, a deadly situation if there wasn't immediate help.

In the darkness nearby he heard someone coughing, and remembered that MIchael had fallen with him. He turned his head carefully, coughing again, recoiling in pain. He caught sight of the other doctor slowly moving, covered in a fine layer of dust but seemingly not badly injured - except for his arm, which was misshapen partway between the elbow and wrist.

Trying to stop the coughing and ignore the blood in his mouth he managed to speak. "Are you.. alright?" Another cough broke up his question but he forced himself through it.

The other man paused for a moment before he continued to rise, yelping when the broken arm made itself known. Ragosa began to look around, squinting in the darkness but not quite seeing. Dust still settled, pouring down from the floor above. Fortunately it appeared only the floor had caved in, and not the entire section of the home, or they would have been killed by the falling roof. That didn't mean the roof wouldn'tfollow suit."What happened?" His voice was hoarse in the midst of all the pollutants that had been inhaled.

Somewhere up above TC heard yelling as people tried to get to them, but it would be hard for them to get down to the basement unless they fell through as well, and that wouldn't help anyone.

"Floor collapsed," he replied. He flinched at a stream of dust and dirt poured down over his face and coughed again, unable to stop himself from choking out in pain at the searing sensation in his side. The sound caught the attention of Michael who finally managed to see him.

"Oh shit," the quiet whisper still carried across the room as the fellow doctor managed to stand and staggered over to him. TC didn't quite manage to hold back the flinch, an automatic but unnecessary response. Pain, helplessness, the inability to move - it didn't really matter who was with him, as in his mind he was only able to consider them a potential threat in this state. He tried to mask his reaction, hating to show any sign of weakness.

"Don't... touch," he rasped. The thought of anyone pressing down on the injury was enough to make him want to puke.

The basement was high, but he top of the rebar which was still wet with blood was broken, leaving a slightly pointed tip. If it had been, perhaps, solid, he may have broken a rib and bounced off it without it ripping a hole through him. It would have been a more preferable situation. As it was he found himself thinking about how rusty the rebar was and how likely an infection would be if he survived. Considering it had impaled itself from his back to his lower chest, probably a good chance. Above, a firefighter appeared near the edge of the broken floor, yelling down at them.

"An extraction team is getting ready! We've managed to stabilize the roof for now, but it will take... maximum 10 minutes to get through the rubble over the stairwell!"

10 minutes. Better than the alternative of, say, an hour. But it would still feel like forever with the pain in his lung. He couldn't yell, and was sure even if he tried to yell that he would only end up hurting himself. "Tell them to bring a saw," he managed to say, before he broke into a series of coughs in which blood speckled his hand.

Looking alarmed, Michael did as asked and the fireman disappeared. Hopefully to return with the proper equipment to not only get down safely but get back _up_ safely.

"It punctured your lung," it was not a question.

"Yes. Can still.." he coughed, trembling in pain. "breathe." Which was the most important thing. He had no wish to suffocate while choking on his own blood. He lay his head back as he focused on breathing clearly, the coughing doing nothing but making him hurt worse. Unfortunately coughing was the response to inflammation, which ironically only made it worse.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Ragosa was unable to think of anything to say that could help, and TC just wanted to close his eyes and lie as still as possible. Talking hurt, after all. Even while he lay still he could feel blood bubbling up into the back of his throat with each breath. The taste of iron in his mouth made him queasy, but it beat the pain rippling his side when he coughed. From time to time dust rained down, making them both cough in the gloom. Over time he was aware of the simple act of breathing getting harder as the wounded lung struggled to function, likely filling up with the same blood he was breathing out.

He was just beginning to be aware of the steady shaking that had taken control of his body when he heard movement nearby. They had gotten through, and a team was moving down the stairwell across the floor from them. Fortunately there was a path through all the fallen boards. He closed his eyes again, grimacing as he coughed.

"We need to hurry," Michael said.

He opened his eyes as hands gripped his shoulders tightly. "We'll need to put you up in order to saw off the bottom. Are you ready?" The rescue worker asked.

It didn't matter if he was ready or not, because truthfully, he would never be ready for that. But it had to happen. They would sooner saw off a chunk of his own skin trying to get to it if they didn't raise him. He nodded slowly. "Just do it," his voice was thick from the blood in his mouth and throat. He stiffened in preparation, but the shaking continued despite his best efforts. It would hurt like hell but the alternative was to pull him off the rebar completely and risk him bleeding to death on the way.

And of course, everything went painfully, excruciatingly wrong.

The angle was wrong, and flesh tore when they moved him. Instantly he choked, coughing up his latest mouthful of blood as his body convulsed in pain. Somewhere someone was shouting, and he knew things had fucked up because he couldn't breathe anymore. Then he was aware of agonizing pain, as if his entire side was being ripped open, and he was sure they had realized they screwed up and had to pull out the rebar completely. Somehow he managed to scream even without any air, but blood flew up with it and he was sure he was drowning, and soon after a strange numbness settled over his body and his mind.

* * *

 **Ragosa POV**

The primal scream of pain was heart-wrenching. The sudden silence and then stillness was almost worse. It had all gone wrong when one of the rescuers had been struck by a sudden fallen board and they lurched forward. He had seen the blood begin to pour out, and TC's sudden choking as his blood-filled lung deflated like a balloon. There was no time now, he had yelled above the noise that they needed to leave now. And he hated himself for the following scream when they had to pull his body completely off the rebar, nearly a foot up. In the end it was almost a mercy when he lost consciousness, even though he was pouring blood at an alarming rate, and Ragosa couldn't do _anything_ with one functioning arm.

The paramedics moved in quickly, trying to stop the bleeding. The entire length of the rebar was coated in a fine layer of blood. He forced his gaze away as they rushed out, up the stairs. They worked quickly, with a tube and a bag. "No breath sounds on the left," one reported. It would be hard to re-inflate with two giant holes in the lung. When they squeezed the bag blood bubbled out of the wound. They let him in the same ambulance, where he watched, almost stunned, at a colleague who rarely got hurt now close to death.

* * *

 **TC POV**

Full awareness was slow and exhausting. He'd reach close to the surface and then crash back down. Eventually he broke through, slowly waking to the sound of beeping, the sound of air whooshing in and out. The sensation of something in his throat stopping him from breathing came soon after, but he was still just out of it enough to not start to gag. Aware that he didn't feel like he was suffocating, he slowly pieced together that he had been intubated, and it was a breathing tube. Still, he could feel himself gagging from the pressure on his throat, while trying to force himself not to breathe manually, which would fight against the tube.

As consciousness continued to slowly wake, he could feel the pressure on his chest. The lung that had been punctured. He knew the damage would likely be extensive and take some time to heal fully, and until then he'd have to be careful, and take it easy.

He flinched when he felt a hand on him, distinctly aware someone had been _talking_ but he had been so swept in confusion and drowsiness that he hadn't noticed. They were going to remove the tube now that he was awake and he knew it wouldn't be pleasant because it _never_ was. He tried to breathe out as instructed, but his lung pinched painfully and he ended up coughing and gagging as they slid it out the rest of the way. Realizing he could indeed move he writhed on the sheets, on hand on his chest as if the pressure would ease the stabbing ache in his lung. Lung pain was a lot different than other kinds of pains. Because it was scary. It was as if pain in the lungs sent the brain into panic mode, initiating the fight or flight reflex, as if the body was suffocating.

The voice yelling at him to calm down annoyed him, because it simply was _not_ that simple. It was that anger that actually got through, however, forcing him to focus on something other than the gripping panic, and realize he was, in fact, breathing. There was a pinch with every breath, and a deep seated ache in the remainder of his side. But air was moving through and he was no longer _drowning_ in a mouthful of blood.

He forced himself to open his eyes, squinting against the light. He could see the blurry face of Jordan and Kenny, and on his other side, carefully pressing down on his shoulders to stop his struggling, Topher.

"You need to calm down. Slow, shallow breaths. There was major trauma to your left lung and it collapsed. We had to stitch it up but you could tear it if you're not careful. The rebar busted right through one of your ribs and we had to piece it back together," Topher spoke clearly, and TC nodded carefully, struggling to try and speak. His throat was sore from the tube.

"We have you on antibiotics but if you feel _any_ sign of infection you need to tell me. The wound was filthy."

Again he nodded, breathing as shallowly as he dared to, to ease the pinching pain. His eyes began to close again, too tired to stay awake. He wasn't really sure if he'd even remember what happened the next time he woke.

* * *

End chapter note: That was fun to write, and perhaps I'm evil for saying it. Hopefully, it is fun to read too! Anyway, enjoy, and I'll be working on the next chapter. (adding the shooting to the list as well, wanted to do one of those!).


	6. Fallen (Drew, OS)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift.

Obligatory IMPORTANT note: Don't panic! I forgot to put this in my last update but we have a big storm coming through Sunday night into Monday with high winds... which usually knocks out our Internet, which can take a few days to a week to get back. I lack a smart phone so, should my Internet be out I may not be able to update. Just letting you know, so you don't panic if there's no update! Rushed out this story just to get this out before the storm.

Note: Short-ish chapter notice. At the end of season 4 we were given a series of clips about what everyone was doing. In that clip we saw Drew lying injured during what I believe was ranger training gone wrong. This will be a quick story on that, though beware of a lot of internal thoughts! Excuse my lack of even basic knowledge about military training and ranking names. I'm just saying "officer" for whoever is in charge of the training. Sorry!

* * *

It had all gone wrong. History seemed to repeat itself, in a way. Even here he had encountered another person who seemed to have it out for him - another trainee, even. It had started out as a small rivalry, the other trainee - Greg - having made a snide comment about Drew's age, and his background. As if he should have joined earlier. Drew wasn't the only recruit that was a little older than the fresh high school graduates, but somehow, he and Greg just didn't get along. It had started small. Glares thrown his way, in which he did his best to ignore. Snide comments in the background, when officers weren't around to notice. Eventually it led to competitiveness, in which Greg would try his hardest to outrank Drew in every thing he did, no matter how ridiculous it was. He wasn't exactly innocent in this rivalry, having done an illegal blow during combat training, punching Greg in the jaw to shut him up.

He had not expected it to go this far. They were proving their climbing skill, up and down walls. It wasn't exactly his strongest suit, struggling his way up the tiny grooves on the straight up walls. And unlike the little climbing walls they once played on in middle school, there was no soft mat for a landing, or a rope in case one fell. Which made it all the more important that he _not_ slip, and that he did not fall any way at all.

That hope was abandoned when he felt a sharp push just as he stepped down. His foot missed, and he spun around just in time to see Greg leering at him before he fell over the edge. Down below he heard an officer yell loudly, but he smacked his head off the wall and wasn't able to decipher the words. A furious part of him hoped the officer had seen what Greg did, but given the height and the distance it wasn't completely possible. The fall seemed both incredibly long but also incredibly short, before he struck the ground. The white dust exploded up over him, getting into his mouth and nose, his eyes. Covering head from head to toe. But what immediately drew his attention was the sudden agony in his arm, the sound of bone snapping.

He gasped in a breath, coughing out the powder in the process. He twisted around, propping himself up against the edge of the wall, looking down at his arm. The shock hadn't hit him yet, but it would. It was a clean break in his lower arm, the bone pressing upwards against his skin. It hadn't broken through the skin, thankfully, and so wasn't bleeding, but it hurt like hell.

The officer who had been watching reached him, checking him over carefully.

"I saw what happened. He will be reprimanded. I will call you an ambulance. I'm sorry, but you may need to be medically dropped." Drew understood. He really did. But the words 'medically dropped' set a cold hard stone in his stomach. He nodded at the officer who quickly went to position, calling in a medical team on his radio.

He felt pure fury rushing through him. This had been his _chance_. Everything he had ever wanted, to be a ranger. And now some stupid kid had screwed it all up, purposely getting him hurt. The only satisfaction he would get at the end of this was the knowledge that Greg would be punished. Hopefully, kicked out, without the word 'medical' in the name. A medical drop was the best one could hope for. Quitting was somewhere in the middle. But last, and the least wanted, was behavioural. Things that set the team back. Bad attitude. Dangerous behaviour. But all that smug justice wouldn't do anything to help _him._ If the break was bad enough he would be sent home. And he knew without even seeing an x-ray that the break was bad enough to do just that.

As he lay on the ground, the white powder turning his skin and clothing pale, he felt the steady shock settling over him. It brought with it bitterness, frustration, and somewhere deep, regret. He had wanted to be a ranger for all his life, and yet even when he was accepted, and he went in, he still felt a twinge of regret. Because he had left Rick, and Brianna, and suddenly it was as though he had traded all he had for that which he didn't really need after all.

He stared at the same spot ahead of him, pain pulsing his arm and head. Just thinking, just processing. Why _had_ he gone? Of course ranger school had been his dream for his entire life. But maybe, he came to realize, it wasn't his dream anymore. His dream was at home. A young girl with a fresh pair of new lungs and his loving husband. He had felt a pang of guilt for every moment since he had left, trying to push aside the look of sadness in the eyes of Brianna even though she had tried so hard to be happy for him. She deserved more than for her only family, hew _new_ family to split apart, even for a temporary amount of time. Because the truth was, he wouldn't just be going home after. He'd have to go on a tour, or maybe more. An overseas father. They deserved more than that.

The sensation was a lot like defeat, but there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

As the ambulance pulled up he still didn't stir, not until they shined a light in his eyes to make sure he didn't have a concussion. No, not a concussion. Just an epiphany. He didn't say much to the paramedics on the ride back, and although they considered it a symptom of shock, it was something more.

Only when his arm was set did he finally remove himself from his constant thoughts.

He would later be informed that he would be returning back to his home in San Antonio, with the words of encouragement that he would be able to try again some other time, and hopefully would not get injured then. Drew accepted that with a nod, and felt a tingling excitement course through him at the idea of going home. He didn't call ahead or even text, wanting it to be a surprise. It was two days before he actually made it back, his broken arm locked into a very solid cast that felt as though it weighed far too much. He wasn't very fond of the cast, but it was going to be his best friend for the next several weeks.

Drew walked down the road outside where he lived, although his body was slightly stiff still from the fall. There was bruising, but other than his arm, no broken bones, which was great considering the height of the fall. It could easily have been much worse.

Fishing his key out and unlocking the door one-handed ended up being real fun, and after fumbling for a few minutes, the door opened on its own. Rick stood there, staring at him with a combination of amazement and confusion. His eyes took in Drew's slightly bruised head and the cast on his arm and seemed to grow wide with understanding. And perhaps a little bit of sadness. "Are you alright? What happened?" They embraced one another, and the knot of tension that had dug its way into his spine suddenly eased.

"Oh yeah," Drew said, with a wry smile. "Took a fall and broke it and they sent me home."

"You seem awfully... calm about it," Rick said. "Are you sure you're alright? Looks like you hit your head."

"I simply had time to think some things over... where is Bri?"

"Studying, I can get her." Drew shrugged as he placed his bags down, ready to go up and talk to her himself. Home was a far cry from his previous living quarters, all in the same area with many of the recruits. It would be nice to have some privacy, some peace and quiet. And some family. "You'll be able to apply again, won't you?"

They both headed to the stairs on their way to Brianna's room. "I can. But I'm right where I want to be."

* * *

End chapter note: And everything went back to normal - well, once Paul comes back, right? Anyway, ended up being a little quick. I was also thinking that maybe he _intentionally_ got hurt in order to get home because he wanted to get back to his family. It seemed strange to me that after everything he'd still want to go to Ranger school and leave them (I mean I know it was his dream to go there and all that but dreams change, right?). Of course I'm one of those people who don't like change and want the same people for the entire series - ahem.

I will post the next fiction as soon as I have power and Internet, if I get it back! After that will be the shooting. And it's funny you mentioned that episode. That is _exactly_ what I was thinking about when it came to the shooting!


	7. Struggle (OS)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift.

Note: You know all those episodes where there is an unruly/violent patient and they _always_ manage to subdue them without anyone getting hurt? Wouldn't it be nice if just one of those times, the patient is stronger and it doesn't quite work out? Well yes, yes it would be nice. And that is the essence of this chapter, where TC gets his butt kicked by a violent patient.

* * *

"Man found unconscious in alley, head wound. No concussion." TC nodded as they rattled off the stats, pushing the gurney into a trauma room where he could examine the injury. The lack of concussion probably meant it wasn't the cause of his unconsciousness. Head injuries typically needed to hit hard enough to knock someone unconscious, and without a concussion that was more likely. Which left him wondering what had happened to the patient, or victim. There hadn't been an ID on him so it was assumed he had been mugged. That left them knowing nothing about the guy, who he was, what his medical history was, until he woke up and was able to tell them.

He prodded at the head wound, noting it wasn't very deep and wouldn't need stitches, when the patient snapped awake. It wasn't a nice awakening of eyes opening and confusion and wondering how he had ended up in the hospital. Oh no. It was a sudden lurch in which the man's eyes opened wide, and he lunged forward. He reacted just fast enough to avoid getting headbutted in the face but still got toppled over when he was bodily tackled.

Normally he tried not to get involved in fist fights with his patients, even unruly ones, but when he was socked in the jaw he was forced to react. The man's eyes were wild, as if he had no idea where he was, what was going on. "Sir, you're in the hospital!" TC tried to say but he got no reaction other than being lifted slightly up and slammed back. He slammed a knee into the patient's stomach, twisting out of his grip. Rising to his feet he tried to rush the man, to knock him back onto the bed where he could try to apply a restraint as quickly as possible. Unfortunately it was like tackling a wall, the much larger, bulkier man catching the front of his scrubs and throwing him to the side.

His back crashed into the defibrillator, and he staggered, barely managing to keep upright. To his surprise, instead of fleeing the room the man came charging straight for him, and his stomach dropped. This guy was clearly out of his mind. He tried to yell out for help while simultaneously avoiding the bull in the room, ducking around raised arms to land a punch in his chest. This only served to enrage the man even further, and he felt a heavy blow to his back when he tried to get past.

The hit sent him to his knees, followed by a kick to his side. Sprawling, temporarily not feeling the pain from the rushing adrenaline, he rose back up only for an hand to grab him by his neck. He twisted, and using the arm as a support, prepared to swing both back legs into the man's stomach. As if his attacker was expecting it, he felt a fist dig into his side above his hip. He faltered, pain surging. A second hit followed, further up, and then a third in his ribs, leaving him winded. He sagged down for a moment trying to recover, which gave his aggressor time to bring up his other arm around him, choking him.

Choke-holds were not aptly named because most of the time they aimed to strangle, cutting off blood flow, instead of the airway. But this man was certainly putting the choke in the name, his wrist applying pressure directly to his throat while he pressed down hard, cutting of air. He struggle, trying to throw off the hold or at least loosen it so he could get a breath. His throat began to ache from the pressure, while his lungs burned as they screamed for air. His punches and twists turned to clawing, digging lines into flesh, but the grip did not loosen. His vision was starting to blur as he struggled wildly to get just one breath, his fighting only serving to make him more desperate to breathe. In a last ditch effort he clawed up above his head, and hit _something_.

Something that was finally enough. His mind barely registered being dropped from the hold, caught by large hands before he could fall, and thrown violently through the glass window of the room. He heard it shatter and felt himself slam down on the floor of the hallway, sliding across the shattered glass. He was barely aware of people yelling or screaming in surprise. The only thing he really cared about was that he could _breathe_.

He coughed and gasped, no amount of air enough to ease the imaginary band wrapped tight around his chest, while at the same time some instinct had him struggling to rise to his hands and knees, failing to do so as blood made him slip. Blood?

Something heavy slammed into his side, flinging him over onto his back.

He managed to roll partially onto his side, still gasping, and it seemed to take an absurdly long amount of time for his breathing to partially get under control enough that his awareness of what was going on returned. The first thing he was aware of were cuts across his body from the glass, and he stopped the desperate movement of trying to get up just so he'd stop getting more glass embedded in his hands. The next, was the screaming. He looked up, dizzy, to see a combination of several people forcing the man down, strapping him in, someone coming up with a sedative. He coughed, breath rasping in his throat, before suddenly realizing someone was talking to him.

He turned to see Molly kneeling carefully over the glass, a hand on his side, simultaneously trying to stop him from cutting himself up more on the glass. "Do you need help to get up?" She asked, phrasing carefully. He respected that, knowing she was being careful because she knew he wouldn't want to get carried out on a gurney. Not when he was conscious.

"No," his voice was hoarse and painful and he swallowed, only for that to hurt too. He knew there was a chance that his trachea was damaged. "I'll be fine. Just need a minute."

A security guard had a bloodied nose from being headbutted. Drew, who must have rushed over to help hold the man down, was sporting a rapidly bruising jawline. While the man was now, at last, unconscious, he had most certainly done a good job at causing damage. It was hard to believe one person had been able to put up such a fight, in a half-crazed, delusional sort of mindset. Somewhere in the back of his mind he acknowledged that whoever the patient was, he had some sort of training in combat. But he wasn't looking like the victim of a mugging any longer.

He began to push himself to his feet, everything spinning around him. He immediately knew it was a bad idea when cold numbness spread across him. Molly, who had risen with him in case he fell must have felt the swaying. Somewhere behind him Drew had approached, to make sure things were okay. Stubbornness was his downfall, in the end. It always was. He hadn't even gotten his breathing under control, and standing was simply too much, overwhelming him. With the rush of his heartbeat in his ears he lost his strength and sagged straight down.

* * *

 **Molly POV**

The shattering of glass was almost more surprising than seeing the body that had gone through it. For a moment all was frozen while people stared in surprise, before instinct and training kicked in. It took another few desperate seconds for what happened to register, suddenly realizing it was TC simultaneously struggling to get up while gasping for air, cutting himself on shards of glass in his movements. She went to rush forward as Drew came running from the other direction. She stopped when the large man that had previously been the unconscious patient TC had gone to work on burst out the door, face twisted in fury, blood running down his face from a scratch near his eye.

She looked on in momentary disbelief as he kicked the doctor in the side hard enough to topple him, where he hardly moved other than to get in a better position to breathe. Drew hadn't stopped his approach, and plowed into the man, knocking him back. As a security guard and a few nurses worked to subdue the patient she quickly knelt beside TC, who bled from many glass cuts.

She carefully gripped both his shoulders to stop him from struggling, noting the bruising on his throat to explain why he was struggling so desperately to breathe. She had never been choked but she knew it couldn't be very comfortable.

Although he tried to stand, after a moment's reprieve, she had seen far too many patient's lose consciousness and saw the same look in his eyes right before. She helped catch him as he slumped forward, surprisingly fragile, despite the fact she knew and had seen how he could take a hit. Drew, bruised from a hit on his jaw, helped her move him. He regained consciousness quite quickly as soon as he was laid down, the very state of being vertical likely too much for an oxygen-starved brain to handle.

"Why was he alone?" Drew asked, and although his voice was angry she knew that the anger was not directed towards her.

"The patient was unconscious when he came in. No one knew anything about him," Molly replied, as that was all she knew. She tended to pay attention to everything that happened in the ER, watching over people and listening on conversations. But if there was no information, then that was it. The man could be anyone, or anything, and without any sort of ID they would have no idea. That was the danger associated with helping people. Not everyone responded well to being helped, and even fewer people responded well to waking up in a strange place with a head injury, with some random person pressing on their injuries. The fact that said person was dressed in hospital scrubs was not always obvious enough.

Topher, appearing from the staff elevator, looked at the shattered glass, the unconscious, restrained patient, the half unconscious and bleeding TC, and the general chaos of the ER with a comically surprised expression. "What the hell happened?"

* * *

 **TC POV**

It was hard to focus on anything tangible. Pain was there, of course. It always was. But he didn't want to focus on that. The stings and burns of various small cuts across his body - mainly his arms and torso . The pain in his throat, particularly the small area under the adam's apple, which felt impossibly swollen. His side ached, from punches and kicks. His knuckles on one hand felt split from when he dug them into his opponent's chest.

The next tangible thing was air. The normally annoying oxygen mask was, for once, soothing. Cool air filtering down his bruised throat was almost a reminder that he was not suffocating. He breathed in and out, slowly. The more he breathed the clearer things got.

Warmth soothed his wounds. Bandages and creams, and eventually he decided to open his eyes and try to be useful.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but he saw Drew frowning at what must be another glass cut. Topher, meanwhile, started to feel at his neck, making him wince and turn away. He didn't want anything touching his throat, especially now. Even though there was no way Topher would hurt him, it simply made him nervous. There had been enough hands near his throat for one day.

"I'm fine. Just bruised," he mumbled awkwardly through the mask. Not quite wanting to take it off to speak, less that band of pressure around his chest returned.

Topher raised an eyebrow. "It looks pretty bad. And your voice doesn't sound very 'fine'."

The glares were half-hearted at best. "Just don't touch," he said quietly through the mask. He was unwilling to admit his fears, but the slight hint in his last words seemed to be just enough for Topher to understand and drop it. For now, at least.

Drew seemed to have finished treating the worst of the cuts as he leaned back, expressionless. The bruising on his jaw seemed worse now that the blood had time to pool.

"These bruises are deep, but they should heal. No sign of internal injury."

Topher nodded.

"If it gets hard to breathe, let me know," he said, his stare stern. Drew left the room, probably to ice his sore jaw. Meanwhile, Topher sat back to gaze worriedly at his patient and friend. For once, it wasn't with a hint of annoyance at him going off and getting himself hurt, because _this_ time he hadn't done anything. A matter of circumstance. Whoever had gone there to help that patient would have met the same fate, with varying degrees of consequence.

"Do you need anything?" The question carried more weight than it seemed. But he was stubborn.

"No. Just rest," he said hoarsely, still breathing steadily through the mask.

"You know no one here would hurt you," Topher added, his careful eyes watching for hesitation.

"I know." But somewhere deep inside, he knew that a part of him didn't quite believe that.

* * *

End chapter note: So the storm went reasonably okay. We were better off than most of our state which lost power, as we got our power back sometime yesterday since we live near a hospital (yay for priority status!). Lots of tree damage, a flooded basement, but the roof stayed on, by some miracle. Anyway, just wanted to beat up TC. As for the next chapters: next will be a rewrite of 2x03 where our favorite doctor gets shot. The following fic will be a rewrite of the bar fight (with Drew) and the following jail-time. Thanks for reminding me about that, I wanted to do a chapter on that for awhile but got distracted!


	8. Shot (RW)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift.

Note: In this episode, TC stands in front of a gun to try to protect a young man from a furious, grieving father. Unlike the episode, however, he gets shot.

* * *

"What's wrong with her?" Ryan asked, looking shocked, and horrified. And as Denny slowly raised his head, swept away from his grief with his daughter in a coma, TC knew things were going to go terribly wrong. That look of pain and fury in his eyes, the slow, uneasy tension. TC tensed in spite of himself, knowing that this was the last place Ryan and his parents should have ended up. Especially now, of all times.

"What's wrong with her?" Denny asked, with barely contained grief and amazement as if he had been asked something incredibly stupid. He repeated the question in his rage, and as he pointed to Ryan, at last finding someone to blame for what had happened to his daughter, TC found himself stuck. He couldn't fault Denny's grief, his pain. But it wasn't Ryan's fault - at least, not truly. They had fallen in love, gotten married. This wasn't supposed to have happened to them, and that made it so much worse. Especially with Taylor having been pregnant, and knowing she might never wake up. There were no winners in this situation. No one to blame. Not truly.

And then the gun game out, and everyone backed away, scared. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Scott and Krista backing out of the immediate line of fire, but he knew Denny wasn't going to shoot them. His anger was all for Ryan. And while everyone else retreated, TC stepped forward. Most people would say it was because he was stupid.

"What are you doing?" He asked as lightly as possible, as if it would break through to Denny that he was trying to shoot a _kid_. It didn't. Denny's eyes shown with tears and anger, and he furiously waved him out of the way with his gun. He ignored it, even when Denny pulled the safety, raising the gun back up. _She's brain dead, it's the same thing._ Except, she wasn't brain dead. At least, not yet. Her scan showed signs of brain function, and that was what differed between her and many other comatose patients who never woke.

 _I've got no hope._

It was easier when he could hate the person who pointed the gun at him, but he couldn't. Not this time. Not when this man had lost everything.

"I'm not going to let you shoot that boy," TC argued, trying to be consoling.

Nothing as getting through. He wasn't quite sure what Denny would do, when he glanced at his daughter, a long look of loss and confusion. And then those eyes came back up, hopeless and defeated. "There's nothing's to figure out."

And the gun moved down a little, away from his head. _Bang_. He heard it first. Then he felt himself stagger back, not quite aware of what just happened, as if someone had punched him in the gut. He heard screaming and shouting, and his legs began to get weak. Denny's eyes were sad, almost apologetic, as if he had not wanted to do this. And he probably hadn't, but he had nothing else to live for, did he? _Bang._ This time his left leg gave out, and he heard blood spray. And he fell. _Bang._ The next shot wasn't meant for him. It was meant for Ryan. But he had no idea if it had hit, because he couldn't get up, or even move. Dimly he was aware he was in shock, his body still numb, his mind stalled as if unable to process what had just occurred. He could see Denny's face, eyes full of tears, as he turned the gun to himself and fired one last shot.

 _No,_ he thought. The initial shock faded, and pain flared in his place. But at least his limbs seemed to be freed from shock, able to move again. He felt pain in his abdomen, somewhere below in the middle. He hoped the bullet had missed his major organs. Somehow he knew Denny had not intentionally shot to kill - and he could have, given his training - or he would have shot him in the head. The second pain was in his lower thigh, a little above his knee. The shot needed to take him down.

After registering his injuries he tried to sit up, to look around and see what had happened. But time had caught up with him, and someone pushed him gently, yet firmly, down. Someone was trying to pull his hands away from the first shot, and he couldn't even remember putting them there in the first place. He forced himself to pull his eyes away from Denny's motionless body, his _wasted_ life lying on the floor next to his comatose daughter. It was Scott who had pushed him back down and now began to apply pressure to the hole in his gut. Pressure brought pain, but he tried to hold still and stifled he sound into a sharp hiss.

"Ryan?" He managed to ask. He hoped the kid was okay, or it had all been for nothing.

"They were wheeling him away after the first shot. He missed," Scott reported, still keeping pressure on the wound. He looked as though he wanted to say something else but he said nothing. He heard rushing footsteps and wheels behind him, signalling Krista's arrival with a gurney. Moving was not going to be fun, especially with the shot in the muscle of his leg.

They were moving fast, however, likely trying to clear the hallway as soon as they could so Denny's body could be removed.

Pain seared him as several people worked together to get him onto the gurney. Blood poured from his stomach as the pressure was removed, soaking into his shirt. He gasped in a breath, trying to get himself under control. It would do no good to writhe on the gurney in pain, aggravating the injuries. Things were moving, and he was reminded of those far too overused scenes in medical dramas of the ceiling lights flashing overhead. His vision blurred, shock returning. A mask was placed over his mouth and nose, bringing the gentle hiss of anesthesia. After several moments he felt himself lulled into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

 **Scott POV**

As TC lost consciousness, there was a moment of nervous motion as people tried to get to where they needed, preparing tools, getting O neg blood, and kicking all the bystanders out of the room so he and the others could do their jobs. Scott continued to apply pressure to the heavily bleeding gut wound. His mind flashed to the apologetic look Denny had given after that shot, but it hadn't stopped the man from firing another shot to the leg. Krista was applying pressure to that wound, which fortunately, was not bleeding quite so heavily. It had gone straight through, however, the bullet having ripped out the back of his leg in a spray of blood, narrowly missing hitting the fleeing patients behind. The third shot must have been blurred with tears because his aim had been good up until that moment. He wondered if they had moved Denny's body by now. Dead before he had even hit the floor.

"Blood pressure is 150 over 90, fast respiration," the aid reported, having finished attaching the necessary tubes. Scott nodded in response. It was definitely high, but he was bleeding heavily and had been in shock, so they would have to make do. As he pulled his hands away to begin to cut, blood flowed continuously, and that was worrying. He was losing too much blood, too quickly. They needed to tie off the major bleeding, fast.

The first cut was only the purpose to get enough room to be able to see. Even with light, a constant stream of blood was making it impossible to see much of anything. The suction tube barely made an impact at all, but he forced himself to search for the bullet.

With a sinking feeling, as he moved deeper, he understood why there was so much bleeding. The path of the damage had passed by his liver, somehow missing it, into a narrow gap between his spleen and stomach. And in the process, had nicked the lower aorta. And while he was insanely lucky not to have hit an organ, they had little time to repair the damage. Already he could hear the unsteady rhythm on the heart monitor, the warning beep indicating stats were dropping dangerously.

The difference clamping made was night and day. The blood still flooding out of the wound like a broken pipe, and he could at least see enough to be able to try to repair the damage. And beyond the aorta, sitting peacefully in the midst of ruined muscle, lay the bullet. Another bout of good luck, really, that it had stopped before it struck the spine and potentially caused enough damage to lead to paralysis. Even so, it was likely the spine had taken a little bit of the hit, and they would have to watch carefully for any signs of swelling, less the pressure lead to temporary paralysis. Fixing the aorta was a troublesome job, as any wrong movement would only slice it more.

"Unclamp it and let's see if there's anymore bleeding," Scott said. He released the breath he had been holding when the wound didn't flood full of fresh blood. There was still minor bleeding, but with the main source plugged, he could go to extract the bullet. And do so quickly.

The system was blaring nosily in alarm at the blood pressure and heart-rate. Carefully, he grabbed the forceps moving it in to grab the bullet. Torn muscle shifted as he did so, and he tried to pull it as carefully as he could. The harsher it was, the more damage it would do on its way out, and the longer recovery would be. As well as the potential for complications. Fortunately the bullet pulled out without too much trouble, and he dropped it in the tray. The stats began to go down slightly now that the foreign body was removed, and he could clean up the wound and stitch all that needed it.

While another surgeon was fixing up the leg wound - the sooner everything was done, the less risky - he cleaned up. The lack of injury to internal organs was the best possible case, but infection was still a risk.

With the last stitch in place and the stats normalizing Scott stepped back with a sigh. It was easy to find fault with TC, always throwing himself into danger and making foolish decisions. But in this case, he had done it to save a child, and he couldn't exactly fault that.

* * *

 **TC POV**

After three days they allowed him to get up. Thank _God!_ The catheter seemed more painful than the actual bullet wounds, if anyone asked him. He'd likely change his mind when he was able to stand, but honestly, if he had to lay on this damn bed for another minute he was going to lose his mind. Sitting up was a larger challenge than he expected. Before, he had been drugged up so much on anesthesia and antibiotics that he hadn't fell anything when he had tried to sit up - which had pissed off Scott who worried he had torn his stitches.

Now he was much less numb, and began to sit up. His stomach stabbed painfully in protest, even the muscles in his back spasmed. Breathing hard and trying not to flop back down, he recalled Scott mentioning the bullet had lodged itself in the muscle near his spine. That would do it. Forcing himself to push through the pain, and placing one hand on his stomach as if trying to console his body with its presence, and with his other, he tried to swing his leg off the side of the bed. That, too, was sharply painful, but he was told the bullet has passed mainly through muscle before harmlessly leaving the back of his leg. Which would only make putting weight on it that much worse.

Just as he was about to scoot himself off the bed, lower himself gently to the floor, and grab for the pair of torture devices people called crutches, he jumped as someone yelled at him.

"What the hell are you doing?" He turned to see that Jordan had managed to silently enter the room and was glaring at him with a look that invited no lies, and most certainly, no arguments.

"Getting up," he replied nonchalantly, as if it were quite obvious. "They said I can walk around today," he added, less she hadn't heard and thought he was trying to ignore orders, yet _again_. Not that he was opposed to that, but he was far too tired and felt far too weak to continue to get yelled at.

"Not on your own," she said in exasperation. "You're going to hurt yourself." She walked over to him, and he braced himself, expecting for her to push him back down but instead she was offering to help him. "If you need to stop, then stop.. you can always try again later," she said, even though she was likely aware the words would fall in deaf ears. He wasn't planning on failing at this one, simple task.

With her to help him balance he managed to get off, but soon found that his leg wasn't taking any weight at all. He struggled to hobble sideways, nearly falling over from the spams currently ripping at his back, before he grabbed the crutches and simply leaned on them. It was awkward, it was painful, and it sure hadn't been any fun. And now that he was up he didn't quite have the stomach left to want to go anywhere, content to stay still and not get feel more throbbing pains.

Jordan must have understood his look, because she looked sadly at him. It was going to be a long recovery.

* * *

End chapter note: Let me preface this end note by saying how excited I am that _more_ people are writing stories, especially TC focused, whump-included, stories! I liked Denny, strangely, but I still ended up killing him here... whoops. But I couldn't see him intentionally trying to shoot TC in a fatal spot. Next story will be the rewrite of the bar fight/jail scene, and then afterwards we'll see from there! I'm considering doing another rewrite of Land of the Free.


	9. Trust Issues (RW)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift.

Note: Rewrite of s3, episode 11 where there is a bar fight and a subsequent "drunk tank". Slightly different interpretation. And, because I'm a sucker for it, friendship! And let's face it, TC was a bit of a dick (I mean drunkness can cause that) so I'm going that modify a tiny bit!

* * *

Betrayal. Sharp, stinging, painful betrayal. The time wasted, the emotion wasted, on that bitch. Anger swirled in his gut when he thought of Jessica. Or was that the alcohol? At this point he couldn't keep track, simply downing another drink. How many was that? And did he care? Somewhere in the back of his mind there was a nagging guilt at what he was doing. Drinking again. After all his work and effort, sinking right back down in that same pit. It wouldn't much surprise him if he woke up, hungover, in a jail cell. Drew was leaving to check on Brianna before her surgery, and in another place deep inside he would have showed more interest, offered advice, maybe even joined him. But drunk, as he was, he found himself distant.

And then douchebag starts talking. Or Ryan, was it? Because Drew offered the guy's girlfriend his chair. The loudness irritated him, but it was the _little bitch_ that set him off. Because no one insulted his friends like that, especially for no reason. And not while his behavior was worsened by several pints already.

It was no surprise when the fight started. At least, not to him. Fights followed drinking. He knew that. He even started it, as usual. But at some point the lines were blurring, and reality began to kick in. He grossly miscounted the number of people who were going to support Ryan, finding out the hard way when someone held him back, and another man began to pummel him. He kicked out with both legs, knocking the person in front of him back, while twisting to try and free himself from the grip. The number of drinks must have dampened his abilities as he ended up thrown to the floor, a boot stomping on his back. Bracing himself against many kicks he managed to get to his feet, only to get grabbed from behind again. The throng of fighting shoved them back and forth, and somewhere, a heavy fist cracked solidly against his chest.

Then twice, and finally a third time. The third hit was accompanied by a low crack, that even in the midst of the noise, he was able to pick out. The pain was immediate and sobering and he it sapped his strength like a leach. His vision blurred, and after getting socked on the head, yet again, he dropped to the ground, crashing into the bar stools on his way down. He struggled to his feet, dazed and wrapped on arm around his broken rib, or ribs, and rose just in time to see the police.

 _Great._

And Drew. For some reason it had skipped his mind that Drew had gotten involved in the fight and he felt a sudden surge of guilt. Especially when the bartender pointed out TC and Drew as the starters of the fight - although, realistically, it was TC and Ryan and Drew had simply been dragged in. But that didn't really matter to them, and as Drew was forced into the back of a police car along with him, he felt lower than he had in a long time. This was all his fault.

He had been to the drunk tank before. Many times, actually. With varying numbers of people, but it seemed for now to just be him, Drew, and what looked like an unconscious homeless guy. TC had taken a spot on the bench on the other side, curled up so he could sit, hugging his knees while resting his aching head on his leg. Hiding the throbbing, aching pain in his side, and pretending to be exhausted and dozing off. The broken ribs screamed, and had been exceptionally sore on the drive. If Drew hadn't been so pissed off he may have noticed, but fortunately he had been distracted with complaints and painful shouting that had made TC's head spin.

Now his friend paced around, calling for a guard to let him get his phone call, and he felt nothing but guilt. And worse, he found himself unable to put his guilt into words, he stayed silent as he kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Normally being drunk made him more talkative, to a stupid level that got him into trouble. Combined with insensitivity. But being injured _and_ drunk simply made him curl up in silence and discomfort, hiding his injuries like a dog.

Occasionally Drew would stop pacing and TC could picture him scowling and shooting daggers in his direction, before resuming. If only he had waited to start the fight until _after_ Drew left. Then he'd be alone and injured, but at least he wouldn't feel like such an asshole.

As Drew muttered angrily to himself about it being the first time he was late for work he wished he could shrink into a ball and disappear. But since he wasn't that flexible, especially now, he simply tightened his grip around himself, as if to protect himself from the anger currently being directed towards him. He knew Drew could pack a punch and TC wasn't going to give him any good reason to do so, although he probably already had enough reasons.

At some point the door opened and he thought it was a guard letting Drew out to take his phone call. He peeked his eyes open and saw another person being put in, a shifty older man who looked very annoyed indeed.

"When can I get my phone call?" Drew asked, ignoring the new guy.

The guard shrugged. "Soon," was all that was said before he disappeared. Drew continued his angry pacing and TC resumed pressing his head against his leg, wishing there was a cold surface to rest his pounding head on.

New guy looked around, and decided not to bother Drew. His eyes fell over the unconsciousness homeless guy, and then on the other man curled up on himself alone. And seemed to make a decision on who he was going to annoy. TC heard feet approaching, but chose to ignore it until the person stood beside him. "I want that seat." TC opened his eyes, glanced at the guy, and decided the guy was just a douche looking to annoy people. But he wasn't in any condition to fight or argue, so he simply forced himself to stand up and stumbled over to the middle bench. To anyone he would appear to be walking drunk, so at least that, too, hid his injuries.

Deciding he would rather lie down with he weight off his injured side, he used one arm as a make-believe pillow - which he would certainly regret later when it cramped - and the other wrapped around his side. Eyes closed, he listened to everything around him to warn him of any possible dangers.

At some point they finally let Drew have his phone call, and in the silence that followed him leaving, TC kept all his senses on the new guy. The guy didn't move much, shifting his weight, changing his breathing. But it wouldn't take long for him to get bored and want to do something, and for people like _him_ , that involved annoying his fellow inmates. The clanging of the door made them both jump, and he felt a sharp pain in his side as his ribs responded. He heard Drew pace back in, clearly agitated, but silent. He swallowed the hard lump that had formed as he hoped Brianna was okay.

A few minutes later, their third conscious resident got up, and began to pace around too, but kept his pacing patterns far from Drew. Eventually he stopped by TC, and he tensed slightly. "Hey, you awake?" The man said, sounding truly, harmlessly bored. But then he prodded his ribs, and the sudden pain was like a flash of lightning before his eyes. He wasn't able to stop the disgraceful whimper, or his reaction, in which he swung out with his free arm and socked the guy in the head hard enough to send him sprawling to the floor. Pain rippled up and down his side and he moved his arm back, this time as a shield, to protect from any more unwanted prods. A necessity, now that they knew he was injured.

The occupants of the cell had all gone silent.

* * *

 **Drew POV**

He was pissed. Beyond pissed. Why had he hallowed himself to get dragged into TC's fight to begin with? The man had gotten into bar fights more times than he could count and was fine afterwards. But he couldn't just leave and then risk him being seriously hurt, could he? But he was now late, and would probably miss his shift, _and_ he had missed getting to see Brianna. And his friend was simply sitting there on the bench completely silent, pretending to be asleep. He could see the small twitches he made when Drew paced, as if silently tracking his movements. It made him slightly uncomfortable, but he found himself soon distracted with frustration at not being allowed to call in.

He looked at the new guy who came in, a large, broad-shouldered man with an annoyed expression. He watched as they guy wandered over to TC, telling him he wanted the seat. And he waited for TC to punch the guy in the face, but to his surprise, his friend stood awkwardly and stumbled over to another bench. He must be drunker than a skunk.

He didn't think anything of it. When he finally got his phone call, he was relieved to hear that Brianna was just fine. The surgery was going good. The weight lifted off his shoulders as he went back in, although he was still surging with frustration. TC was _still_ silent, not offering a word or even a question, and he was half tempted to yell at him until he got an apology, but in the end it wouldn't matter if the apology wasn't meant. He needed to get out of here, and get to the hospital so at the very least he would be there when she woke up.

He was vaguely aware of the other guy pacing as well, not really caring since the man wasn't causing any issues. Until, of course, he did.

He was only paying half attention when he once again approached TC who had, once again, pretended to be asleep. Part of him wondered why this guy was so intent at being annoying until he heard the whimper of pain when he prodded TC's side. And Drew froze, because TC rarely cried out in pain, and he only stood watching when TC punched the guy hard enough to send him flying back onto his ass, before curling in on himself while trying to at as though everything was fine.

And suddenly, it all made sense. His silence. Not arguing or fighting. Why he was trying not to get on anyone's nerves. He was hurt.

Drew crossed the room quickly, mainly to stop the other guy from getting up and pummeling his friend into smithereens for punching him, shoving him away with a firm glare. He waited until the guy had gone off, muttering angrily, to sit by himself before turning his attention to the very tense, wary form lying on the bench.

He had been guarding his ribs all along, and Drew hadn't noticed. Caught up in his rage. The rage was still there, but it had dimmed significantly, softening to concern.

He knelt down, worried TC would punch him too, but so far he wasn't doing anything. "Hey, can I look at your side?" He asked, keeping his voice quiet. Drunk TC was typically angry and disagreeable, but he hadn't really come across a drunk _and_ hurt TC, but he seemed to be very tense and secretive. Hiding his injuries and acting as though he was tired, because for some reason he didn't seem to want anyone to know he was actually injured in the fight.

The fight had been a blur. He had seen TC punch the guy to start, but then lost sight of him for the entire time until the police hauled them away. He had been quiet and moving stiffly then, but he angrily blamed it on the alcohol.

"They're broken," TC responded, not removing the arm in front of his face, or the one covering his side.

Drew frowned at him, seeing how extremely tense he was. Muscles stiff, entire body prepared to be struck - or to strike back. "I'm just going to look, okay? Not going to touch anything." He felt as though he was trying to an injured animal in hopes it wouldn't bite his hand off when he checked to make sure their leg wasn't broken. Was it lack of trust that led him to this, or was it simply the strange emotional state left from drinking too much?

He carefully pulled up his shirt, prepared to jump back if a fist flew towards his face, but while TC stiffened even more, he didn't react. He was bruised in many places from different hits, but the bruising over his ribs was quite severe. A large area over his mid-rib line as simply covered in nasty, dark purple bruising. His chest rose slow and shallow, indicating pain when breathing. He had no way of taking care of them right now, not without any medical equipment, and even then, he had promised not to touch the area. He felt a sudden tug of guilt at his earlier at thinking of simply leaving him to fend for himself. How much worse would it have been, if he hadn't distracted a few participants of the fight? And if the other occupant had decided to pummel his friend in bored frustration?

"Why didn't you tell me?" He asked, with a quiet sigh.

For a long moment TC was silent and he was starting to think his friend wouldn't reply at all until he did. "You're angry."

And if that didn't hurt, he didn't know what did. Because his friend didn't trust him enough not to hit him while he was down. Perhaps it was the alcohol speaking, or perhaps it was a buried emotion. He didn't know which, and that only made it worse. He sat down on the bench near TC, unsure or what to do.

When Jessica showed up, faking or maybe really being apologetic, he practically had to drag TC with him to convince him to go to the hospital to get his ribs checked. And maybe when he was sober they could have a talk.

* * *

End chapter note: I loved writing this chapter. I like adding these little chinks to his armor. The chink could be real or it could simply be his drunken mind deeming the world a threat, but I'll leave that up to you guys! As far as the Land of the Free idea, it'll likely end up a little sadistic... which is perfect! (Poor TC...) I mean, the criminal's a guy who cuts people's faces off and burns them alive so no doubt he'll do some mean things. Thanks for reading!


	10. Land of the Free (RW)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift.

Note: Rewrite of the 'fight' in Land of the Free (4x09). This chapter will be a little more vicious than others, considering the nature of the criminal. Also I did a quick bit of research and found his name is Romero! A little dark, a little sadistic, but a lot of wonderful whump! Should I feel bad for him? Maybe. A little torture upcoming.

* * *

Perhaps not having any bullets left didn't really make it a fair fight. That was what he decided, after getting clobbered for the fifth time on the head with the empty gun, knocked onto his back. The man's face was twisted into a furious snarl, punctuated by blood that ran from his many wounds. His blood trail had been easy to follow, and it was simply amazing that the guy was still going strong, not only after having been shot, but the previous injuries from the car accident. He made to get back up, to continue the chase, but instead of trying to keep going, the guy slammed into him, crushing him against the bottom of the vent. Somewhere, further down, he could hear the loud screeching of the saw. They were trying to cut open the vent to send people up to help, most likely. He just had to keep the guy busy until then.

Easier said than done.

He swiped the guy with his knife, catching skin. Then the larger man's hands lunged for it, and he struggled to try and keep the knife in his grip. If he lost control of it he'd probably leave the vent cut into pieces, and that wasn't exactly on his plans for the evening. But it was like wrestling with a bear, his physical strength less than his opponent, and it was all he could do to keep his fingers wrapped around the knife that began to bite into his skin. One finger snapped painfully like a twig, but he still refused to give in.

Romero bared bloodied teeth before punching him hard over the head. He felt the back of his head bounce off the metal of the vent, but he couldn't move his arms, still trying to maintain his hold on his knife against his other hand. Romero grabbed a fistful of his hair, and pulled his head forward only to ram it back down, hard. The first one left him dazed, struggling to piece together his thoughts again. He could feel weakness spreading through his body that he tried desperately to push through, until his head was slammed yet again backwards. This time he felt a sharp pain, combined with the ache of the impact.

His ears rang, so loudly that for a moment he couldn't hear much else. His head felt as though it had been bashed open, but he'd probably be unconscious if that were the case. His vision was blurred, and it took him several moments too many to realize his body had gone traitorously limp, and he no longer had the knife in his hand. He couldn't focus on much beyond the pain in his head, not even hearing what Romero was saying, although he could see his lips moving.

Surely he was threatening to kill TC, so why wasn't he dead yet?

Normal sound came back into focus with a violent pop. "Or should I cut your eyes out?" He was asking, and TC only wondered what he had been saying before that. Surely something equally unpleasant. He tried to raise an arm to ready a hit, or even just protect himself, but he couldn't quite force his muscles to function properly and it only rose weakly.

Dimly he was aware of the loud sound of the saw, still cutting away at metal.

"My escape isn't going to work out, but you can be my last treat. How does that sound?" He hissed, words like poison.

Treat?

 _Pain._ The knife buried into his shoulder, so harshly and deep that he felt it scrape bone. He choked out a yell, jolting in agony. Pain shot down the arm, followed by tingling numbness, although he could still move his fingers. His shoulder was on fire, and he could feel the blade, sharp and painful as it tried to twist, caught on bone.

"A little to the right and I can make it so you can't move your arm at all," Romero taunted, applying just enough pressure on the knife to send darts of agony shooting through him.

TC tried to move, push back, or do anything at all to stop him. But he was pinned beneath the larger man, and his limbs still refused to respond properly, even to protect him. It was a feeling of helplessness he tried to squash down, aware he could do nothing but take whatever new wound was to be send his way. When Romero ripped the knife from his shoulder in one smooth motion he felt his body arch slightly in his pain. Blood ran down his shoulder from the wound, soaking into his shirt.

"I can do the same to the other," the criminal said, his eyes practically gleaming with enjoyment. He was a serial killer, and a sadist. His enjoyment came from the pain and misery of others. "Or carve my name into your skin."

TC refused to respond, or show any reaction at all. It helped that his mind was partially numb from what must be a very serious concussion. The sound of the saw had stopped, and they were pounding at the vent to break it out. Someone would be coming, soon. "If only I had the time," Romero hissed into the dark. He felt the tip of the knife biting at the skin on his neck, breaking through, ready to drive in further and sever his throat in one smooth motion. But somewhere in the back of his mind he knew Romero wasn't interested in killing him. Ultimately he had killed many people, but his interest had not been on their death, but on their suffering, or he would not have chosen to kill them in such gruesome ways.

As if reading his mind, the man pulled the knife out of the small wound, and then slashed it brutally across his chest. He tried to hold back the cry, but was unable to, as white hot pain seared across and blood sprayed the wall. It was not deep enough to be fatal, but it bled heavily and it was long. He felt weakness graying out the areas at the edge of his vision as he struggled to stay conscious, the pain from his head, combined with that of his body, eating away at him.

Silence, another slice, somewhere below that one. Each one felt as though it was on fire, burning away at his skin. Moments later Romero turned his head, annoyed, as if aware of something.

"You made it worse for him now," and it took him a long moment to realize the guy wasn't talking to him.

"Don't," a voice said, and he realized someone else was in the vent, but before he could try and figure out who the voice belonged to, the knife plunged down into his chest, dangerously close to his neck. But he wasn't aiming for the neck. The strength was enough for the knife to bite partway through his clavicle before it jarred to a stop, likely from the blade breaking as it met too much resistance. Either way, the pain was absolute, and nearly drove him directly into unconsciousness. His body jolted from the hit and he felt his eyes closing against a crashing wave of darkness. But it didn't pull him under, not completely His body did not show him the mercy of unconsciousness.

* * *

 **Drew POV**

When the panel at last fell away, he climbed the ladder and carefully entered the vent, much to Jordan's disapproval. His heart plummeted in his chest as he took in the scene. Romero's back was turned towards him, but he had TC's nearly motionless form pinned beneath him. Drew began to approach quickly, because at this point he didn't think there was any time to wait. His approach did not go unnoticed, and he noticed Romero's head tilt in his direction, but he didn't turn his eyes from TC.

"You made it worse for him now."

He wasn't sure which was worse - those words, are the action that would follow. "Don't," he tried to say, lunging forward. He was almost there. But then he saw the knife raised, and then brought down with enough force that he could _hear_ the impact, a jarring sound much like metal on bone.

When TC jerked and then went limp he could only assume the worst.

Rage thundered through him and he managed to get his arms around the killer, a tight, absolute grip, and twisted him away. The man snarled, and they fell across the floor of the vent in their struggle, almost to the opening. He wanted to beat this man to death, but that fury was tempered by the understanding if his friend was alive he'd need help sooner than later. Still, he took great pleasure in driving a fist in the man's throat, perhaps a little too hard, and then shoving him brutally through the opening. Romero dropped to the ground with a thud, startling a few people who quickly reacted. He managed to catch Jordan's eyes.

"Get a gurney," he said quietly, hoping desperately it would be needed for carrying away a living person, and not a dead person.

He crawled back through, up to TC, and for a brief moment in time he thought he was dead, until he saw the rise and fall of his chest. The knife, which was buried up to the hilt, had not gone into his heart like he had suspected. It was instead lodged further up and he had the feeling it was in the clavicle, if that sound of knife-on-bone had been any indication. A painful situation, but not fatal.

He felt pure relief. He was alive.

He decided no to touch the knife for the time being, since he was already bleeding from many injuries and he didn't want to add another bleeder to it. His chest was soaked with blood, and he could see the gashes, torn straight through his SWAT jacket. More blood streamed from a wound on his shoulder, which looked like a stab wound. His face was half covered in drying and fresh blood, but as Drew began to move him, he realized TC wasn't actually unconscious.

It was only the slightest of movement, followed by a groan. When Drew saw the large amount of blood that had collected under his head he decided there was no time to be gentle.

* * *

 **Jordan POV**

She felt a surge of alarm when Drew said to get a gurney, moments after shoving a furious, blood-covered Romero straight through the hole where he smashed hard to the ground. The criminal's eyes gleamed with fury and something else that she couldn't quite understand, as they cuffed him and dragged him unceremoniously out. Kenny came back in with the gurney, positioning it under the opening like they had previously. Kenny helped to lower the scarcely moving form onto the gurney. Jordan's eyes fell upon the knife lodged in TC's upper chest and for a long moment she was hardy able to focus on anything else.

And then instinct kicked in, and she rushed forward to help. His eyes were open, albeit it briefly, although they focused on nothing at all. And the right eye... "Pupil blown," she said out loud, tense with worry. His head was covered with bruising and a gash, and as she felt around the back her glove came back sopping red.

And there was so _much_ red. It covered his face, hands, his chest. Dimly she was aware that Drew was forcing her to move along, pushing him away to a room equipped to deal with his many injuries. The first thing she had to do was get his shirt off to see the severity of the wounds. But she didn't dare pull out the knife while he was already bleeding so much, so she took out the scissors and began to slice carefully through his shirt, peeling it away from bloodied skin. The cuts were long and deep, but the bleeding wasn't life-threatening. They would need stitches, and cleaning. The more she cut, the worse it looked, when she sliced around the knife and exposed the stab wound in his shoulder. It was deep, pulsing with blood. She noticed a little belatedly the gash on the palm of his left hand, and a broken finger. The skin looked dark under the smears of blood, as if bruised.

Compared with the rest of him, it seemed minimally important.

It took well over an hour to work through everything. Stitching the gashes closed on his chest. Washing of immense amounts of blood while pushing more O-neg into him. Reducing the finger, cleaning the cuts. More stitching on his head where the skin had broken after many hits, or a slice with a knife. The shoulder wound took more effort, when they determined the knife had sliced neatly into the joint, as if by immense precision. She could even see the scratches etched into the bone from the knife. At one point they had to stop, when the pressure in his skull got too high, forcing them to relieve it. The knife wound was last.

Scott had to help remove it, after realizing that the tip of the blade had broken off and was lodged in his collarbone. The tip that had to be wrenched out viciously, leaving a new gouge behind in the bone.

The concussion was severe, injuries from the front of his head combined with those on the back. A dangerous amount of swelling, but fortunately it was going down, getting under control again now that the bleeding had stopped and the pressure had gone down. He was now sleeping relatively peacefully, one last bag of blood, one more bag of saline, and an arsenal of antibiotics and painkillers. Occasionally he shifted or made a sound, but never truly woke up.

Jordan found herself unable to sit still, getting up and pacing around in agitation. A combination of fear, worry, and anger. This wouldn't have happened to him if he had simply listened to her.

When he woke, it wasn't gently, and she just so happened to be sitting down once again. It was his sudden gaps of breath that alerted her to his consciousness, followed by him reaching up with his left hand in a weak motion towards his chest, as if not trying to feel for the knife. His face was pale, as if suddenly aware of the pain, and he drew in another sharp, ragged breath.

Jordan rose, carefully stopping him from pressing at his injuries should he try to determine what was wrong.

His dazed, still concussed eyes met hers and she could practically see his mind struggling to frantically determine what had happened. As she lowered his arm she was immediately aware of how _weak_ it was, as if he didn't have any strength left. His arm shook in her grip, and continued to shake even after she let go. And in spite of the frustration she felt for him having gone off and gotten himself hurt, she couldn't bring herself to yell at him or scold. The look of confusion still present on his face told her he was definitely struggling with concussion symptoms.

"You're alright now," she said gently. He blinked slowly, pupils still enlarged, but at least not blown. Partial understanding at least. "You just need to rest," she said.

"Couldn't.. move," TC spoke as if it was difficult to form the words.

Jordan didn't understand what he was talking about. "What?" He was moving now, at least, a little.

"Before. After I hit my head. Couldn't move," he clarified, short sentences all he was able to say.

And the brief panic made sense. Unable to move, to protect himself, while being stabbed and slashed and hit. TC had always been one who did not deal well with being unable to do things. He needed to be able to do something, to move. The current trembling and weakness was likely the remaining effect of swelling that had, albeit briefly, rendered him immobile.

"You have a bad concussion and swelling in different areas. It's going down though, and you'll be fine, as long as you take it easy."

Because TC taking it easy could _not_ be stressed enough. He was a stubborn man.

It was obvious his head was pounding, as he didn't nod, and only blinked in acknowledgement. Not long after, his eyes began to drift close while she adjusted his IV drip so the pain would be at a more comfortable level.

While it was getting late - or early, in their time - she decided to stay so she would be there when he woke up next.

* * *

End chapter note: I hope you enjoy reading as much I enjoyed writing it! A bit dark, but I like the idea of helpless TC. The next fic will be lighter, and will contain a lot of random (sometimes funny) events all happening in the same day. TC just keeps getting unlucky, and it will add up! Afterwards, I will be doing a rewrite of the s4 finale (Still refuse to call it the series finale!). I wanted him to get hurt during all that shooting and such. So he will. I will also consider your idea of making a few chapters following impalation in its own story about his recovery, but it probably won't be until after I'm done with classes!


	11. Thunk (OS)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift.

Note: TC has a bad day. And the ER is busy - packed, to be exact. And his day gets a little worse. Combinations of humor/whump. More of a gentle fic than the others, but I really, really, wanted to do this! Takes place in season 2 with pregnant hormonal Jordan (loved those episodes haha).

* * *

TC woke feeling stiffness in his leg that afternoon. He had made the mistake of sparring with Drew in one of his veteran training sessions. His leg now felt he had stretched the muscle a bit too far, and it was hard to hide the limp. Even his back ached. That was the last time he let Drew show his visuals with TC as the victim. He may not have actually gotten hurt but he sure felt like it now, as he moved awkwardly down the stairs. A hot shower would help, at least, and hopefully it would do enough that he would be able to hide his stiffness from his colleagues. _Especially_ from Drew. And from Jordan, because if she found out she'd take it all out on both of them.

By the time he got to work, he was feeling much better, and had covered his limp enough that it only slightly bothered him. Maybe it would be a quiet shift. Hah.

And with that thought, he walked into a zoo.

People were everywhere. Bleeding, moaning in pain, sick, sporting lumps and abrasions. An elderly man vomited on the floor, and three people tread through it before the orderly could get through in time to try and clean the mess. TC was jostled and pushed around by a crowd of angry, impatient people, all with some injury or another. He hadn't removed his jacket yet, which was the only reason he got through without them realizing he was a doctor and mauling him to what would likely be an untimely death. He staggered out of the mass of people and darted into the locker room, nearly running face first into Ragosa, who appeared to have been spying out the window trying to gauge the best time to escape.

"Did you say the Q word?" TC asked, stepping around the once-boss who shuffled out of the way.

Ragosa raised an eyebrow at him in confusion. "The Q word?"

"Yes. Quiet. It looks like someone definitely said the Q word." Shaking his head in mock disapproval he went to his locker, shrugging his jacket off. The pain in his back stabbed at him and he winced as he pulled the sleeves off his shoulders. A wince that, unfortunately, did not go unnoticed.

"Sore back?"

"Slept bad," TC lied. It was safer to lie than to admit the truth. For him and for Drew, should Jordan find out.

"Are you guys ready? We need help out here," Topher snapped, poking his head in, allowing the influx of noisy yelling to flood the room.

"Yeah, coming now," TC replied, mentally preparing himself for the task at hand. One person at a time, no matter how many complaints or threats or angry, huffy patients. And to get through them quickly, before they started a riot in their impatience.

His first patient was a young woman who had a knife embedded in her arm, from what, she said, had been an accident. Her hyper-annoying husband, however, said a different story. Not in words or explanations, but in his attitude. Tense, angry, silent. He kept one hand on her shoulder, perceptively too tight. She said nothing against him, simply stating that she fell. TC didn't exactly have a built in radar to see domestic abuse but he was definitely feeling worried about it. A worry, practically confirmed moments after.

"Sir, I need you to step out so we can remove the knife and take care of the wound. You can wait right outside," he spoke calmly, as a nurse came in to take care of vitals and take notes for sedation.

The man's eyes blazed with anger but he slowly began to move out. "Why can't I stay?" He said as TC was escorting him out. Once out of hearing range of the wife, and into the busy hallway. His voice was practically screaming defensively, as if trying to determine if he was at all being blamed.

"It's protocol, no one else in the room when we do sedation and surgery," TC replied.

Abusers tended to get violent when they caught wind that their actions were being noticed, or if they thought someone was watching.

"But she's my wife," he argued.

In a temporary lull of noise as some of the people cleared out, they could hear clips of conversation from inside the exam room. Which was apparently enough to make him freak out, thinking she was giving away his actions to the nurse.

TC had been distracted momentarily by the sight of Jordan as she helped out a young boy, and didn't notice the blur of metal coming at him until it was too late to duck.

 _Clang!_ The sound was comical but the sensation of a metal tray colliding with his head drove all the humor out of the situation. He staggered sideways, catching himself on a stopped crash cart while he brought one hand up to hold onto his head. He was vaguely away of the man shoving past him to get back into the exam room, and he raised his head and tried to blink to clear his vision. Then he turned and rushed into the exam room too, as the man began to scream furiously at both the nurse and his wife, who he ran up to. She shrank back in instinctive terror, while the nurse had stood up and backed away in shock.

TC darted forward as the man made to strike his wife, furiously shouting at her for betraying him, and managed to grab him around the chest, trapping his arms.

The ensuing struggle sent pain rippling through his back as he tried to contain the guy, while the nurse rushed out, calling for security. He managed to hold the guy through a couple of well placed, but not full powered elbows to his ribs, before help came and managed to sedate him and grab him. TC stepped back, his back cramping heavily, and tried to relax his arms. The pain rippled sharply down his spine with each sharp, painful spasm and he stiffly moved sideways as they dragged the man away.

He heaved a sigh as he raised a hand to his throbbing head, feeling the blood that trickled down from a cut.

It was going to be one of _those_ days.

Topher had cleaned and bandaged the cut before forcing him to take care of _less_ critical patients. Which was okay, since following the small 'fight', he was having a hard time moving properly, his back stiffer than it had been upon waking. He kept getting funny looks from Ragosa on passing, and he chose to ignore them, forcing himself to keep going while he tensely resisted moving his shoulders beyond anything physically necessary. The headache had at least faded to a dull throb with a couple of tylenol.

Jordan found him after he sent home a boy who had been brought in with a sprained wrist. The crowd in the ER was slowly declining, but it would only take one real emergency to completely disrupt all the effort they had put in so far.

"I heard someone hit you on the head. You alright?" She asked in passing.

TC stopped, so she wouldn't notice his awkward gait. "Yeah. Surprised me with a tray," he said with a laugh. In passing, if he had seen anyone get struck over the head with a metal tray that hade made a loud sound he may have found it funny. It was a different story though, being the receiver of it.

She nodded, running off to get to her next case.

By the middle of the shift it had begun to slow down. He had seen countless sore throats, swollen joints, and cuts and bruises. The things people went to the ER for were either very serious, or very silly, laughable things. For some people a minor pain had them running in for IV painkillers, whereas for others, they needed to be bleeding out from a belly wound to even consider going. People had begun to calm down now that the line was going down, and they were being seen to as quickly as possible.

And then, naturally, a trauma came in, and everything went downhill. Scott and Topher had to be pulled in for two different surgeries, with Drew and Kenny helping. Jordan was still working on a patient. It took only 30 minutes for tempers to rise, and as TC left the exam room leaving an over-tired, insomniac patient to head out on her own, he saw a large group of people at the nurse's station, screaming angrily. Molly looked overwhelmed and annoyed, and he couldn't blame her, since she had taken the brunt of the aggression and impatience, being the first person at the desk. It was aggressive movements and several brash insults that had him moving over cautiously.

"We've been waiting for over four hours!" Was the nicest sentence being spoken. The rest were accented with anger and misguided insults.

When one of the men made a move as if to strike her, he stepped in, forcibly positioning his sore body between her and the patients. "Hey, hey. There's no need for that. Just calm down. I'll take you in as soon as-" he trailed off. Because apparently saying _calm down_ was the wrong words to use to a group of pissed off people. They surged forward like a collective mass, and he was thrown backwards from a heavy hit to his chest. He crashed down on his back, momentarily forgetting how to breathe until he coughed, and was distinctly aware that he needed to _move_ right now.

Because a surging riot of angry people did not care who was _beneath_ their feet on their way to where they wanted to be. He rolled in the direction of the desk, kicked, stepped on, and in one case, his arm was stomped on. Then he was free, curling up into the space beneath the desk and hoping Molly had managed to get out of the way as they rushed past, knocking over everything in their way, towards the trauma rooms. He sincerely hoped they didn't end up killing someone in their rampage when they inevitably interrupted something important, or hurt anyone else. Security would be rushing forward to interrupt, and hopefully get a handle on everything.

As for him, he would be perfectly happy to not move for a very long time. He was fairly certain his back wouldn't support any movement to begin with, His arm ached, his head ached, and the various new aches and pains were making themselves known. It was no surprise to anyone that being trampled to death was _not_ a good way to go. The body simply was not made to be able to take the full weight of a person in a small area.

Unfortunately he wouldn't be allowed to simply lay still and not move much. Of course, it was Ragosa who appeared, ducking enough to look at him just below the top of the desk. "Are you alright?" His expression was a mix between concerned and amused.

"I'm fine," TC replied.

He then had to prove it, forcing himself out from his 'safe from other people' spot, and trying to rise. His back protested, then popped ominously which he was sure, unfortunately, others could hear. His leg threatened to give out, having been aggravated by his abnormal movements, and he hauled himself up using the desk for support. Straightening his back was agonizing, but with another painful pop, he managed to do it. Most certainly not a convincing performance.

"Yeah, you look fine," came the sarcastic comment, and TC glared at him.

The crowd of angry people was deteriorating rapidly, after some talking, some violence, and some help from security. Keeping one hand on the desk for support should his leg give out, he carefully stepped forward.

Drew weaved around the group of formerly angry people, somehow managing to have avoided getting pulled in, and made his way towards the desk. His frowned as he took sight of TC who had stopped and leaned against the desk, before his confusion changed into a look of understanding.

"Did I hurt you?" Drew asked, clearly equating the stiff stance with the earlier 'training' session.

"No," he lied quickly. "I tried to stop their tantrum."

"Your back was sore even before that" Ragosa pointed out, and TC gave him a different kind of glare - one that suggested he was going to kick his ass. And Ragosa looked away, faking innocence.

"You should have told me," Drew sighed.

"I'm fine, I was just stiff," he replied stubbornly. The punch, fall and rush of movement had been what truly threw things out of position, and he knew he'd be enjoying back pain for quite some time after this.

Without another word he began to limp away, one destination in mind. It hurt, his back spasmed, his leg trembled. His arm wasn't broken, but it sure hurt a lot and already a bruise was forming.

"Where are you going?" Drew asked, moving as if to stop him or help him.

"I need a break."

* * *

End chapter note: I was having a hard time trying to figure out how to end it, if you couldn't tell. No severe injuries here, just some fun poked at his expense. Next chapter will get back into the injuries, with a RW of the s4 finale! I want to do something with hypothermia but I simply cannot decide yet on how to do it. And... waiting for opinions on this: a hostage situation outside of the hospital, involving TC and Jordan. I am thinking about doing part 2 of certain chapters (impalation, LoTF), and might do that when I'm starting to run low on new ideas. I'll name them properly!


	12. Resurgence (RW)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift.

Note: I kind of preferred the 9th episode of season 4 to the finale, but that may be biased because he actually got hurt in that one. But this episode had plenty of possibilities available. Shot again, but this time, the main part of the story is survival among extremely aggressive people who have no mercy, regardless of their reasons. I basically made the shooters just crazy people. I mean, you've gotta be crazy to murder people, right?

* * *

The only warning that they had been spotted was the loud bang and the sharp pain in his right leg that sent him falling to the floor, nearly dropping the professor. If it wasn't for Drew and their trainee quickly adjusting he may have ended up smacking the guy's head off the floor. TC could feel the bullet wound in his lower leg, and the deep ache in the bone that suggested the bullet had lodged itself into the side of his shin. They had just gotten around a corner, but he knew whoever had fired would be quickly approaching.

"Tee!" Drew called his name worriedly, as they slowed in their escape.

He forced himself to stand, even though his leg would not support running, let alone carrying another person. He had to make a quick choice, as the blood trail may just prove to kill them all. "Go, I'll lead them somewhere else," he said, ignoring Drew's protest. "I don't have time to wrap it and I will leave a blood trail," he snapped quickly, when Drew tried to protest.

Face hard with his dislike of the situation, his friend nodded, and continued to carry the injured professor down the far right hallway. He would go left, and hopefully they would find someplace safe to work on the professor's injuries.

He moved awkwardly, unable to put more than small amounts of weight on his leg. The shin-bone, or tibia, was _the_ weight carrying bone in the lower leg, and with impact of the bullet he wouldn't be surprised if it had fractured, rendering it incapable of holding anywhere near what it should. He practically had to hop down the hallway, pausing enough to drop down and let his bloodied pant leg smear on the floor, before hauling himself back up and continuing the painful gait. He could hear the shouting as he rounded the corner, closer to him than away. They would take the bait, he hoped. Now he needed only to find a place to hide and take care of his injury.

The hallway was bland, and the doors of most of the rooms would be locked. The few open ones had automatic lights, rendering hiding in them pointless. He rounded the next corner, preferring quick turns to risking getting shot in the back if he kept going straight. Unfortunately the next hallway was long, and he was quickly tiring of the painful hop-running, blood dripping with nearly every step. Breathing ragged, he slammed into a partially open door which flew open, nearly knocking into the inside wall. The light flickered on, but on the opposite wall he could see the manual switch.

He let the door close quietly behind him as he made it those last few steps, pressing the switch down so the automatic functions turned off. Swathed in darkness, he quickly backed himself into a corner, squeezing between two cabinets, and pulling a small table towards him to hide himself from view.

And then he froze.

He could hear the whispering in the hallway, occasionally punctuated by a "come out, pig!" They thought he was SWAT, probably because of his uniform, but he doubted they'd care about the medic tag. They were shooting helpless college students and professors, after all, so what difference would it really make to them who lived and died?

Their footsteps continued past the door, and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief as their whispers disappeared down the hallway.

He waited another couple of moments, before pushing the table out of the way so he could turn on the lamp by large desk. Then he sat down, drawing his wounded leg up and pulling up his pant leg to reveal the wound. The bullet had struck from the side, but closer to the front, and most certainly had lodged itself in his tibia. It pulsed blood slowly and steadily, and he pressed a piece of gauze against the wound, gritting his teeth at the pain. He pulled the pantleg back down over it, for added cushioning, before wrapping gauze tightly around the outside of his leg.

He took a brief moment after to lay still and try to get his strength back. He checked his phone, which was fortunately silenced, to see he had a message from Drew, asking if he was okay. He quickly sent a text stating he was, in fact, alive, before deciding to try and backtrack and find where they had gone to.

The hallway was empty when he entered it again, and he began to backtrack, following his blood trail. He used the wall as support, frequently dizzy, staggering painfully with every half-hearted attempt at a step. And then he heard voices up ahead, just around another hallway. He stopped, realizing he had no time to run into another room. He had only enough time to move behind a change in the width of the hallway, and hope they didn't come down this way. But, as their footsteps came closer, he knew unfortunately that they had.

He listened carefully, hoping they were SWAT officers and not the gunmen, but he heard clips of "pig" and jokes about shooting that made him realize just how fucked up in the head these people were.

He slid down the wall, balancing on his good leg. When they walked by, they would inevitably see him. He would have to act fast to take them by surprise and hopefully incapacitate both of them before they could shoot him. He waited, seconds seeming to tick by like minutes, until the footsteps were right nearby. And then he struck.

He lunged out, surprising the first shooter, who was a large guy and struck him in the face before grabbing him and spinning him around, trying to get control of the gun to shoot the second - a woman - as she brought up her weapon in surprise. "Drop your gun," he yelled, while the man he was holding was momentarily frozen with surprise. But then he reacted, and TC was reminded that just because these people were young, didn't mean they didn't know how to fight. And if they could kill, maybe they knew a little something about a kind of world most college students hadn't been exposed to.

An elbow dug into his side, and he felt the guy suddenly grip both his arms, twisting his body sharply. A hand wrapped around his neck and his grip on the gun hand was slipped off. And then he was being hauled forward, briefly aware he had been bodily flipped into the air. He landed heavily on his back, the wind knocked out of him and stunned from the shock of the impact, which had been both momentum and the strength of the flip itself. He coughed, struggling to fill his lungs when his chest didn't feel like moving. He waited a brief moment for the sensation of bullets striking his flesh, but they didn't. Instead, the two shooters both stared down at him, the man holding the bloody nose that he had punched.

"A medic, huh?" The guy laughed, although his voice was heavy due to the bleeding. "There's no saving anyone here. Everyone will die." He laughed as he spoke, and the woman grinned strangely at his side.

"Not going to save anyone with that leg though," the guy continued, indifferent to TC's silence, before kicking him in the leg around the slightly bloodied bandage. The pain stole his breath away, so soon after he had gotten it back, and he curled his injured leg towards himself in pain. The bone throbbed painfully, and he felt queasy with the many pulsing pains that shot through it. Both of the gunmen laughed and he felt a surge of fury, although he was unable to make any move to do anything about it.

"I'd kill you now. Put you out of your misery," he spoke as if he was talking about euthanizing an injured animal. "But you punched me, and I think I'll let you wallow in it."

At first TC was confused, wondering what he was talking about. His leg wound wasn't enough to kill him and neither shooter made any move to shoot him again, although both guns were aimed at him as a warning in case he tried any sudden moves.

And then the man shifted, gun lowering, and a boot was driven sharply into his stomach. And then another, and another, to different places. He wondered if the guy was just going to beat him to death, and he wouldn't be able to react at all without being shot. He curled protectively, relieved the body armor was giving some protection to his vitals, or he would definitely be in a lot of pain. Unfortunately it offered no protection to his extremities, and as much as he tried to protect his shot leg he still felt a few hits that nearly caused enough pain for him to black out. Eventually it ended, and as he came to full awareness he realized he was lying on his stomach, a dull ache present in the majority of his body. His leg was sharp, and a place in his left arm was also sharp. There was a small pool of blood under his head, but he wasn't sure where it was from. His mouth? His nose? Was there a cut on his head?

In the background he could hear the woman laughing her stupid, obnoxious laugh and felt a surge of annoyance. Along with her laugh was heavy breathing, likely the sound of the heavy exertion of being a dick.

"Hey, you wake? I got carried away." The laughing increased but TC chose not to respond. "I have an idea. We're going to walk around, see if anyone else is still alive in here. And if you're still here when we get back I'll kill you." The way he spoke about killing people, so nonchalant, reminded TC of a psychopath. No emotion, just a need to kill. This was no campus jealousy or divide in beliefs. This guy was simply out of his mind.

"Up to you what you want," the man said cheerfully as he and his female 'colleague' walked off. Their footsteps clicked around the corner, and then he was alone.

He didn't want to move, but he had to. He was in no mood to get killed today, even though it would be possibly more pleasant than the pain he was currently experiencing. It would have been much worse without the armor, but even with it he was well aware that he wouldn't be able to stand. Which left him the option of crawling. Another unpleasant idea, but ultimately, his only choice now. With only two functional limbs his best option was to roll onto his side and push himself with his good leg. It would at least prevent the blood trail from the bullet wound, although he couldn't quite tell if it was bleeding or not.

It was long, exhausting, and took several minutes to even get to the end of the hallway. He couldn't even remember where he was, or where he was supposed to go. He simply pushed himself down a hallway until he saw an exit door. Somewhere behind him he heard many shots fired, but they weren't near him. He hoped it wasn't the sound of them finding Drew and opening fire.

Unable to go any further he simply propped himself up against the wall, resting his pounding head against the cold stone.

At some point he must have passed out, because he came too again with someone gently shaking him, unknowingly sending shooting pain down his sore body. He opened his eyes, slowly focusing on a shape that blurred into focus. Drew. Who looked unharmed, although a little frazzled. He was aware of several SWAT officers flooding the area, finally able to break through the gunfire that had kept them pinned. He wondered if the two gunmen he had 'run into' had been taken out or if they had given up, unless they were still loose.

"Tee? Hey, Tee. Can you stand? We have to go," Drew was saying. While he wanted to force himself to stand and walk out of there he knew he wouldn't be able to.

"No," he rasped quietly.

His eyes started to close and the world tilted before a strong arm caught him. Realizing he had nearly lost consciousness yet again, falling towards the ground, he forcibly opened his eyes and breathed in hard. He would be no use if he passed out now, and he was sure when Drew said they had to go, there was a pretty damn good reason. Beyond Drew he saw a few additional medics supporting the professor as they exited the building, guarded by many officers who had their guns drawn at the ready. They needed to sweep the building, no doubt.

"Just lean on me, okay?" TC managed to get his good arm across one of Drew's shoulders while they rose, slowly and shakily. It hurt to move, and he couldn't put any weight at all on his hurt leg, let alone stand on it. His other leg shook painfully when it held his weight, the muscle bruised, his body exhausted from running and bleeding and injuries. Unable to stand on his own he practically had to put most of his weight on Drew, who carefully adjusted his grip to make sure TC didn't fall to the ground if he staggered or lost consciousness. Moving was downright awful, but he forced himself forward, one painful step at a time, while trying not to jostle or move his shot leg at all.

His vision narrowed out, dark around the edges. He wanted nothing more than to drop to the ground and just lay there.

"You alright?" Drew asked, having stopped him from nosediving for the third time.

"Great," was all he managed to say, and it came out in a breathless gasp. He was hardly doing anything at all, but it was taxing. Most of it was the pain, rippling from his leg up to his head, making him feel weak and dizzy.

"We're about there," he heard eventually.

"What the hell?" He heard someone whisper, and felt a presence at his left side. He would have said something, if he wasn't so busy trying to get his bearings, before he felt someone try and help by ducking under his left arm. He couldn't resist a yelp of pain at the movement in his arm, which elicited an apology from the mystery person. Who's voice he suddenly recognized as Jordan's.

Together they managed to help him stagger to a cot, lying him on his back. He winced in pain when they moved his legs up as well, gritting his teeth.

As much as he wanted to try to be helpful and move himself, he was simply too exhausted.

His mind lagged behind with fatigue even as someone removed the soaked bandage from his leg, pulling up the pant leg and then checking the wound underneath. It must have been bleeding heavily, probably due to the several hits it had taken, because the same person began to apply pressure to his leg and the pain that rippled up the injured bone jolted him back into awareness. He cried out, pulling his leg towards himself even though that made it hurt even more. He was sure if the bullet had passed through flesh and gone out the other side it wouldn't hurt this much.

"Shit. No exit wound, the bullet's probably lodged in the bone."

"There's a lot of bruising," someone else murmured.

In the background, he could hear a man yelling "ambulances are here, get everyone out, there are still shooters loose!"

"Wrap it, and let's go. We're going to give you something for the pain, alright?" Jordan's voice was gentle near his ear, and he nodded wearily. He only wanted to rest. The prick of a needle was so gentle that he barely felt it. He felt himself drifting off before they had even moved him.

* * *

 **Drew POV**

He was worried. He had managed to get the professor's leg wrapped and his bloodied nose cauterized, but they were cut off from everything else. And aside from TC's single message stating he was alive, he had no idea where his friend was and if he was _still_ alive. Suddenly someone was pounding on the door, proclaiming they were a cop. The trainee asked for his credentials and recognized the fake badge seconds before the firing started. He pulled her away from the door, hearing the shouting on the other side, and the slamming. An axe was breaking through the right door, and he prepared to take out the guy when he broke through. The professor was cowering behind the ridge in the wall, and hopefully wouldn't take a bullet.

Drew struggled with the first guy who came in only for his trainee to shoot with the second invader's gun, before she was thrown to the floor. He shot the new guy, who already had a bloodied nose. Both shooters slumped to the ground, dead.

And then he nearly shot the other trainee who came barreling through the door behind them.

With their help they managed to half carry the professor out, back towards the entrance. He kept an eye out for TC, or even a trail of blood to follow. He had been shot in the leg, so how likely would it be that he managed to outrun the shooters this entire time? Several SWAT officers found them and helped to grab the professor, and rounding the corner into the next hallway, he spotted TC. Slumped against a wall, unconscious, leg wrapped in a bloodied bandage.

He ran forward and dropped down beside him, relieved at the steady motion of his chest. He had a cut on his head, surrounded with bruising. His protective gear was covered in dust and dirt, and a little blood in some places, as if he'd been dragged through the hallways. He gently shook his shoulders, which did the trick. His eyes took awhile to focus and he seemed uncharacteristically fatigued, as if having trouble staying awake. Despite it, he knew they needed to _move_ and there wouldn't be any time to allow him to rest. And TC seemed to know that too, with his short, clipped answer. But then his eyes drifted shut again and he fell forward, Drew catching him so he didn't hit the ground, cursing quietly. He was in bad shape, and all he was aware of was the bullet wound and his head injury.

Standing was too much for his friend, but he was light enough that Drew was able to take most of his weight, carefully in his movements. He suspected there were some injuries hidden under his gear, but out in the open with possible shooters, he wouldn't be able to check. He could hear TC's ragged breathing. Feel him sagging down more and more. The triage wasn't far, and they could rest there until the ambulances arrived.

Jordan, who was taking care of a blonde patient who was handcuffed to a cot, looked up in surprise before she ran up to help Drew practically drag TC the last few feet. He heard the slight cry of pain when she moved his left arm, and he filed that injury away into his mind to look at later.

After depositing him no the cot Drew took a moment to stretch out the kink in his neck while Jordan began to unwrap the blood-soaked bandage. When they removed the clothing out of the way, Drew was surprised to see the unnatural looking bruising around the bloodied bullet hole. The bullet wouldn't have caused such extension bruising around the injury, and Drew was beginning to get the feeling that someone had attacked his friend after catching him. It would explain the head wound, the bruising, the pain in his arm and likely other places. Jordan clamped her hands around the wound, trying to stem the bleeding, but TC's cry of pain was nearly immediate as he tried to pull away.

Fortunately the ambulances arrived, guarded by bulletproof SWAT vehicles in case someone fired at them. He began to wrap the wound with fresh gauze until they could remove the bullet and survey the damage to his bone while she injected him with painkiller. He lost consciousness soon after.

Carrying him onto a gurney and then moving him into an ambulance was the easy part. The less easy part would be going over and seeing just how badly hurt he was. A paramedic began to hook him up to a blood bag, as his skin was clammy with shock. Drew checked on the hurt arm, pulling up the sleeve to reveal a broken radius, heavily bruised from what must be blunt trauma. Trying to swallow the fury that someone had beaten his friend, he worked to check him over as quickly as possible.

* * *

 **TC POV**

He woke to familiar white walls and the sound of steady beeping. He felt stiff, but not in pain, and he credited that to the IV in his arm. His memory was clear enough to remember what had happened, although he had slept through essentially everything after the cot. It was probably all for the better. He could easily recall the sickening pain in his leg from pressure, from weight, from any motion at all. That memory was why he chose not to try to move, or stand. He did glance around, and saw Drew walking into the room, Jordan behind him. They both looked momentarily surprised.

"How are you feeling?" Jordan asked, automatically checking to make sure his IV was still in, in case he woke up violently and dislodged it.

"Fine," was his normal reply. Even if he didn't feel fine, he would typically say it.

"What happened?" Drew asked, his brow furrowed with that look of concern. "You're covered in bruises. Why didn't they kill you?"

"I punched a guy in the face and pissed him off," he replied. "I guess he took the broken nose personally." A little too personally, if he thought about it.

"Broken nose?" Drew smirked slightly. A kind of satisfied smirk that suggested he knew something. "Some guy with a broken nose busted his way into our room and got shot." And that explained the smirk.

"Sounds like he got what was coming to him," Jordan said a little coldly.

TC silently agreed.

"Did the bullet break my tibia?" He asked. That was important. Because that bone took its sweet time to heal, and it sure _felt_ like the bone was badly injured.

Jordan hesitated only for a moment. 'It's not broken... but the bullet did hit the center of the bone mass, and left a pretty bad fracture. And there was some further bruising on top of that. Your left arm is broken, though. A closed break," she reported. His arm? He remembered that sharp pain only a little, but hadn't really considered what was wrong with it.

"You got lucky you were wearing protective gear. You have a lot of bruising but it could have been a lot worse," Drew told him unnecessarily. "You should have stayed with us," he added. "No one left behind, remember?"

The words, while not accented by emotion, were slightly jarring.

He would never have let any of his friends run off and do something like that, and sometimes he forgot they felt the same way.

"Yeah. You're right," he replied quietly.

* * *

End chapter note: Wooo this took off. I needed that Drew interlude just to clear up any confusion. I loved beating up TC in this chapter (poor guy, I'm so mean). I do want to do another sickness chapter, and the food poisoning idea is really tempting! I'm still trying to plan out how I want to do the hostage situation. The wildfire thing made me think of how funny it would be if he went with Scott and they had to share one of the fire protection tents (hehe), but I definitely wanted to do something with smoke inhalation and/or a burn injury! I believe the next chapter will be hypothermia because I'm still thinking through how to get the hostage situation whumpy enough. Thanks for reading!


	13. Hypothermia (OS)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift.

Note: Hypothermia! In Texas. I wasn't sure how to do this until I read temperatures _can_ get down really low. Maybe it's rare, but this is fanfiction, and anything can happen! What could be better than hypothermia, however? Being injured, first. Naturally.

* * *

It was the coldest day in Texas he had ever witnessed. The temperature had dropped below 0, the windchill leaning closer to -10, and snow was falling from the grey skies. It would make more sense if he was in New York, or some other northern place. But here it was, January in Texas, in the midst of a storm. And he and Scott were on the road, in a car with a barely functional heating system, about to arrive at an apartment building in which a tree had come crashing down through the right-side window. Everyone was driving slower than death, because should their tire fall across a single snowflake, no doubt their car would go flying off the road. Or something like that, right?

Eventually arriving on scene, he stepped out into the blistering cold, stiffening awkwardly. The wind made it worse, and he zipped his coat up all the way. It was thin, not a winter coat like people up north would use, but it was good quality and at least helped to protect from the windchill. Several people came running out of the opening of the apartments, panicked as more damage was being done. One lady was bleeding heavily from a wound on her arm, and TC immediately went to hurt, quickly guiding her towards an ambulance. She had no coat on, and she was bleeding, which would only make the cold even worse. She flinched slightly when he touched her, obviously frightened. "It's okay ma'am. I'm bringing you to the ambulance where you can get warm and they'll take care of your arm, alright?" He said gently, and she nodded quickly.

"My son is still in there. I couldn't find him," she cried softly. "The branches broke into our apartment. He's six!"

TC nodded in understanding, crushing the feeling of worry that her son may be seriously hurt. "Don't worry, we'll find him. What floor are you on?" He asked, checking behind him. It was only a four-story apartment building, but the side of the top two floors hit were heavily damaged, and the force of the wind was only making it worse.

"Second floor. Please find him."

Once she was with the paramedics he quickly took off, rushing into the building. Eventually Scott finished helping a limping young man and followed him. "Little boy on the second floor missing," he said when his coworker caught up to him. Scott raised an eyebrow, clearly about to mention the fact that they weren't firefighters - they were _doctors._ And there were many others who needed medical help right now. But TC was nothing but stubborn, and he already said he was going to find the boy.

"He was in the room when the tree fell into it," he interrupted.

He made it to the second floor, noting the partially caved in roof over several areas. The wind roared by with shocking noise, and the very building seemed to shake. It was only during a lapse in the wind that he heard the small sob, and he saw a small, bloody face peering at him from the next room between several large branches. "In here," he said, entering the room.

Most of the wall had caved in or been torn out. It was a massive tree, obviously very old, and extremely heavy. The building itself was also on the older side, and was simply not built to handle that kind of stress.

He could see cuts all over the child's body. He was sitting down, holding one leg close to himself, eyes wide with terror. "Hey, it's alright. Can you tell me your name?" TC asked, crouching down beside the boy while Scott grabbed a blanket from the ruined bed and gently draped it around the child's shoulders.

"M... Matt." The boy spoke, shaking with fear.

"Okay Matt. We're going to take you outside, okay? You're mom is already out there, wondering where you are." None of the injuries looked like anything that was life threatening so he wasn't going to try and treat now. The best course would be to get the kid out and to an ambulance where he would be safer.

Matt nodded. "My leg hurts, I can't stand up."

"Don't worry, I got you," Scott said with his charming smile. He had only just picked Matt up when they heard a terrible cracking sound, followed by a dull roar. Somewhere in the hallway he could hear people yelling.

 _Get out! The roof is falling in!_

They managed to get to the stairs before part of the wall was torn away. There was a brief moment in which their eyes met before he felt something collide heavily with his shoulder, and he fell sideways, out the open wall and to the ground ten feet below. By sheer dumb luck he collided bodily into the hanging bars of a window archway before sliding off the rest of the way to the ground. There he lay dazed amidst broken glass and branches, snow falling. It took a moment for him to be aware of the coldness, and then the awareness of pain.

There was a large shade of glass in his leg, buried deep in his thigh. It bloodied his pant leg. His shoulder ached, but his hand and arm was numb, and his arm hung awkwardly at his side. Most likely dislocated, from whatever it was that had collided with him.

More alarmingly, however, was the blood soaking into his coat. He was bleeding from his chest, but he was unaware of the injury that caused it. Had he split the skin colliding with the metal bars? He guessed it didn't matter how he got the injury. It was more important that he was _cold._ The powerful wind seemed to cut right through him, especially where he was bleeding, and he tried to sit up and turn away from the direction it was blowing. His muscles ached with the movement, and his head spun with his shoulder's protest. He should set it, just to ease the pain, but he was rapidly growing aware of the fact that he lacked the strength to do so. Not with his muscles so stiff from the fall.

He struggled to pull gloves from his side pocket, before his fingers went numb, carefully not to get blood on them, less the combination of cold and wet lead to frostbite. He needed to get up, and get around the apartment. Unfortunately he was on the other side of the building, which was backed into a nest of trees that shuddered under the force of the wind. One way was blocked by fallen trees and branches. The other was littered with falling objects from the torn wall of the apartment. He looked up to see the way the roof have carved, cutting neatly through the siding.

Standing was difficult, with the glass in his leg but he dared not pull it out and soak his leg in more blood. He limped a few feet, before hearing another creak and he braced himself against the side of the building as a large branch fell. The tips of the branch bounced harmlessly off his coat.

He limped a few more feet, flinching at the biting wind that seemed to rip straight through his coat. It was surreal. It wasn't supposed to be like this in Texas - at least, not this bad. Occasionally 40s, some wind of course, but not this cold. Sure, it had gotten this cold before in the past, but the difference between then and now is he was hunkered up indoors, safe and warm and certainly not bleeding in the wind. His teeth began to clatter before someone rounded the far corner. It was Scott, followed by a paramedic carrying a collapsible backboard. He guessed their response was reasonable, since he had been knocked out of a second story window. Their surprise would be humorous if he wasn't so miserably cold, a sensation that made the pain worse.

"You're standing," Scott said, as if disbelieving.

"An archway broke my fall," TC replied, although the clattering of his teeth made speaking troublesome.

He could feel the shivering increasing, as a stronger, more rapid gust of wind took his breath away. It almost felt as though it removed all the heat from his body, and that he was wearing no layers to protect himself against the elements.

"You're bleeding everywhere, we need to get you out of the wind," Scott glanced to the paramedic as he spoke.

The man nodded, stopping momentarily to yell into his radio. As he did, a powerful gust of wind made TC stumble, bracing himself yet again against the building. Even Scott struggled to maintain his stance against the wind. Unfortunately, the nearby small tree that had been leaning tiredly was not so lucky, and with the mighty sound of roots ripping from the ground, it began to fall.

"Watch out," was all he managed to see, staggering a few steps back. The paramedic dove to the ground - in the other direction - as the tree crashed down hopefully between them. It collided heavily into the wall of the already damaged building, sending more bricks and beams shooting down. In the aftermath, Scott yelled over the wind for the paramedic, checking if he was okay. An answering shout confirmed he had not been crushed by the tree, but now their safest route was cut off. If they went around the fallen tree they'd risk getting hit by any number of breaking branches.

His hands began to grow numb, even with the gloves, at about the same time he began to struggle to focus. A cloudy edge took on his vision, as if walking through a surreal landscape. He forced himself to ignore it. They needed to move. The long building was going to pose enough problems.

Scott turned to him, frowning. "We have to go around now. Can you walk that far?"

It didn't matter if he cold or not. "I'll have to," he replied, but his words were low and he found himself unable to raise the volume. Or maybe it was the sound of the wind making it seem quiet?

He continued an awkward, painful limp forward, the pain beginning to be replaced by numbness, although not fast enough. More wind made him stumble, but he felt a warm body pressing against his side to help him keep his balance. He blinked against the wind, practically cutting like knives against his skin. He wrapped his working arm against his cold, bloodied chest. It burned to touch, but he needed warmth. Something to ease the icy cold biting at his skin, making him shiver violently enough that his entire body trembled.

"I need you to keep walking, alright?" Scott asked, confusing TC who was fairly sure he _was_ walking.

Then he realized he had been stumbling sideways, and tried to right himself, forcing his legs to work properly. Some part of his mind was trying to remember the symptoms of hypothermia. The other part - the more dominant part - was just reveling in how cold it was, and how much his shoulder ached. He was sure he was walking forward again, or at least, as forward as he could.

At some point his world swirled with flashing lights. He did not recall having gone around the building. In fact, he didn't even remember having gone around the tree. The flashing lights were fading rapidly, however, and in their place he saw snow blowing across the frozen land. The warmth against his side was the only grounding force he was aware of. He was struck by an idea, an idea he wondered why he had not considered earlier. His clothes, soaked with blood, probably made it colder.

"Should get this off," he slurred weakly to the warm shape next to him. What was he even doing here?

The ground magnified suddenly, as if it got closer, and his eyes closed.

* * *

 **Scott POV**

TC was practically dead weight against his side. Cold, exhausted, and bloodied dead weight. It was worrying that the front of his coat had begun to freeze, and he hoped it hadn't frozen all the way to his skin because frostbite was _not_ going to be fun to deal with. He had stopped shivering several minutes ago, which meant he was getting very hypothermic. He paused when TC mumbled something barely audible, before collapsing completely. _Shit,_ he thought, trying to pull him up and half drag him to the ambulance. The paramedic who had run ahead to get supplies ready came back out with a thermal blanket, and helped Scott support him to the ambulance.

The blood stain on his chest had practically covered the entire front, and much of the outer coat was frozen. The first thing to do was to get the soaked and icy clothes off and warm him up, but it was easier than done. He took large scissors and began to cut his way through the side of the coat which wasn't bloodied, and hopefully he'd be able to peel the rest off. There was no resistance when pulling off the jacket, which was met with relief that the blood on his skin still hadn't frozen. The large cut on his chest was worrying, as it stretched diagonally across his chest, still bleeding sluggishly. The skin was a dark purple colour, and he hoped it was bruised rather than frostbitten. The bleeding would increase the warmer he got when the blood vessels dilated, but if he waited then there might not be time at all.

He took one more second to note the bruising and dislocation of his shoulder before draping the thermal blanket across his chest.

"Internal temperature at 90 degrees," the paramedic reported, removing the thermometer from TC's mouth.

Which meant he was only a few degrees away from coma and death. He needed to get warmed up now. Hopefully the combination of the heated ambulance, lack of wind, and the thermal blanket would be enough to keep his temperature stable and rise it, but they needed to get to the ER as soon as they could. He turned his attention to the shard of glass lodged in his thigh. The blood trail was less expansive than the one from his chest wound, but it was still very dangerous.

Unwilling to remove it unless he risk it having punctured an artery and start bleeding out, he simply threw the second thermal blanket over his lower legs.

"We only have two bags of warm saline but they should last," the other paramedic said, starting the IV drip. Warm saline would be immensely helpful.

"Check the temperature every two minutes," Scott ordered, glancing at the pale, motionless form. His skin was almost grey, his lips blue. Hopefully they would be in time to prevent any trauma to the heart, or frostbite to his extremities.

He called ahead, so there would be others waiting for them to arrive. The sooner they got him in, the better.

* * *

 **TC POV**

His skin felt hot. It was strange, because some logical thought in the back of his mind told him he should be freezing. But no, that wasn't right either. Part of him was hot, and the other was numb. A sensation of coldness was beginning to tingle through one arm, and it was uncomfortable. He felt heaviness on his limbs and when he tried to open his eyes it was too the powerful glare of lights. Too bright. He winced away, letting them close again.

He thought someone spoke but he had drifted off into unawareness again. The next time he came back around it was to cold. He was _freezing_. The strange sensation of warmth had faded, replaced with the cold. He shivered fitfully, unable to stop himself. His hands were still numb and he still couldn't remember how he got here, or why. Why was he getting progressively colder instead of warmer? He managed to force his eyes open again, to lights that were much dimmer. He was covered in a large pile of blankets, although he couldn't even feel the warmth they were supposed to be giving off. His mind was working several stages too slow, wrapped in confusion, his muscles also taut. It was hard to move, harder to keep his eyes open. There was a shape in with him but it blurred out of focus almost as soon as he saw it, and his eyes drifted shut.

The next time he awoke the coldness was accompanied by pain. Pain in his chest, pain in his leg, pain in his shoulder. His back ached. His entire body felt sore and stiff, and the shivering only made it worse but he still couldn't stop. He didn't open his eyes but he was eventually aware of someone talking. "He's up to 94.5. Let's take care of the injuries before they start to hurt again."

 _Too late,_ he thought to the voice, but couldn't speak the words.

He drifted again, feeling nothing for quite awhile. When he came to he felt significantly warmer. Still cold, still shivering slightly, but no longer violently shaking. He was also able to focus. The blankets were warm and soft and he shifted for more comfort. The pain had faded at least, although his shoulder had certainly had better days. His memory returned in a gentle whoosh. The apartment, the fall, the cold storm and the wind. Blood from his wounds. Hypothermia. He took a moment to make sure he could move his fingers and toes, afraid of frostbite, before he looked around.

The pile of blankets had shrunk. He winced slightly as he tried to adjust the blanket around his shoulder, feeling it throb in protest. Struggled to remember why, after the events. Then recalled it was dislocated after he had been struck by a fallen beam of some sort.

"Are you going to stay awake this time?" Jordan's voice asked and he saw her approach from over the edge of the blanket pile.

For a moment he was confused, albeit briefly. He must have gained consciousness a few times before now. "Uh.. I think so?" He said, although it carried the confused tone of a question. Surely he had warmed up enough by now that most of the worst effects were over.

"You just got up to 97 degrees. How are you feeling?" She asked, probably noticing his slight shivering.

"Mostly better. Just a little... coldness." He hesitated before he spoke. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer, but he asked anyway. "Frostbite?"

"There was... a very small amount of damage to the skin around the wound on your leg. Because the blood froze, your skin also froze. We removed the dead tissue and it should heal fine," she told him.

Which meant that he had, fortunately, not lost any fingers or toes.

"I thought we didn't have to deal with this crap in Texas," he complained. He hated the cold. And now he hated it even more. Next time, he was just going to stay home.

"I'm going to get a coffee. Want one?"

"Yes please." Something hot would help chase the last of the cold from his body. And he loved coffee.

* * *

End chapter note: I wrote this as a northerner who has never been anywhere near Texas. Extreme cold + wind is typically bad for trees. I'm assuming Texas has plenty of trees, of course, while writing this. I might, eventually, go to the other end of the temperature spectrum and do a hyperthermia chapter too (heat)! Next up I will do something involving food poisoning (a specific kind, though). I should have the hostage thing figured out by then so hopefully that'll be up after that! Thanks for reading!


	14. Toxin (OS)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift.

Note: There are many kinds of food poisoning. With them, there are many symptoms and levels of severity to play with. Naturally I pick a more dangerous kind, with more severe symptoms, that also fit the time table. But at least it's treatable!

* * *

Eating breakfast before going to bed as fairly common by now. He didn't often ear _out_ , but he usually got home, ate breakfast, then went to bed before his next shift. They went to a well known restaurant - well known for not having fresh, quality food, but for being cheap - and enjoyed their quiet breakfast. TC decided to get something different for once. He was usually a bacon and eggs or pancakes kind of person, but he went with a supreme omelette, full of vegetables. It wasn't that great, and some of the flavors were rather odd, but he finished it anyway. They continued to talk for awhile, about cases, about family, about life. Then they all went their separate ways to go home.

He managed to even get some sleep before getting up for work, relatively dream-free. His dreams were rarely good, and so it was nice to have a restful sleep rather than one ridden with nightmares that left him more tired than he had been before falling asleep.

It was starting out with a steady business. Nothing too serious had happened so far, and he had only treated mild cases of flu, injuries, and broken bones. It was two hours into his shift where he began to feel a little strange. A dull pain in the center of his stomach, radiating outwards. It was too far off to be his gall bladder, and wasn't accompanied by anything else, so he decided to ignore it. Maybe it was an ulcer. Maybe it was just a muscle spasm.

Unfortunately, the pain began to get worse, and one such time he winced while standing at the throbbing in his stomach, someone noticed.

"Are you alright?" Topher asked, stopping beside him as he straightened carefully.

"Yeah, just a cramp," TC replied, holding his hand uneasily over his stomach. He couldn't remember banging against something or doing a weird workout that could cause a muscle ache. Maybe he had slept wrong. Wouldn't that be irony?

"Ah. Drink some water then," Topher advised, before continuing on with his armful of fresh sheets.

TC carried on, choosing to ignore the pains. Unfortunately they didn't go away, and just moments after leaving a patient's room he found himself running into the men's room before throwing up. The nausea had been very sudden, hitting with only a few seconds warning. He leaned against the side of the stall, still nauseous, still in pain. He waited for a few minutes, in case the nausea increased again and he was sick, before standing up. He couldn't be sick, could he?

Wincing at the pain in his stomach he flushed, and stumbled out of the stall to rinse his mouth from the sink. He hated being sick - hated, most of all, throwing up.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. Skin only a little pale, probably from the nausea itself. He wasn't sweating and he didn't feel chilled, so he didn't have a fever. As he gazed at his reflection, his vision seemed to blur out of focus for a brief moment before returning to normal. It was so quick he wasn't even sure it had been real.

Straightening up and forcing himself to cover the unease on his face he stepped back out into the hallway, prepared to finish with his current patient before he decided to find Jordan and let her know he was sick if the nausea remained. His movement was slow, mainly so he could walk in such a way it didn't aggravate the pain _or_ the nausea. He forced a smile with his patient, made himself act and sound normal, but in reality he wanted nothing more than to lay down until his nausea went away. Nausea was far more debilitating, to him, than pain.

Exiting the room he could practically feel his stomach spasm, and for the second time he darted to the bathroom, barely making it in time so he could throw up.

His head spun after, and he hadn't noticed that his retreat into the restroom had been followed.

"You're sick," Topher observed. TC sat back, breathing in and out through his nose in an effort to alleviate the nausea which seemed to pervade. "How many times?" Topher approached slowly, although a little warily as though worried TC might puke on the floor.

"Twice," he replied, before forcing himself to get back to his feet.

The nausea didn't go away but it had, one again, reclined to a tolerable level. He made it past Topher, to the sink, which he had to grip tightly as his head suddenly spun much worse than before. He managed to view his reflection, face pale, skin sweaty from nausea, and a slight shake in his muscles. His vision was blurring in one eye, and he blinked to try and clear it, but this time it remained.

"Tee, you okay?" Topher asked. He felt a hand on his back.

"Just dizzy," he replied.

"Why don't I take you somewhere to sit down, okay? Do you have a headache?" Topher led him out by one arm, checking the hallway first before exiting, as he knew TC would not want everyone to know he was sick.

He stomach churned but held, and he blinked slowly before responding. "No."

He sat down on the bed, although he was not granted much relief at all. He would at least not fall over and knock his head off something if the dizziness got too bad. He was starting to wonder just what he had managed to get himself sick with.

"What are your symptoms?" Topher asked.

TC blinked again, looking at the slightly blurry form of his friend. "Stomach pain, nausea, dizziness, blurred vision. In my left eye," he added as an afterthought.

Topher took his pause to put a thermometer in his mouth.

"Normal temperature. No fever. Is it possible you're having a migraine?" Topher asked.

It was possible. He didn't have them often, and rarely had symptoms like these before one, bu the lack of a fever indicated he didn't have a virus - or at least, his body wasn't currently fighting one.

"Yeah, maybe," he said, leaning back.

"I want you to stay here for a little while. If anything gets worse then let me know," he said, placing a vomit tray nearby should he need it. TC nodded quietly. Hopefully it would go away if he simply rested a bit.

But it didn't.

He gradually became aware of thirst. Or, more accurately, the dryness in his mouth and throat, as if he had not drank anything in days. Of course it was likely just from vomiting earlier, and losing fluids from that. He made himself get up so he could fill a glass with water, drinking it carefully so the rush of water didn't irritate his already volatile stomach. Unfortunately it did nothing to ease the dryness, even when he drank the entire glass and filled another.

He brought it with him back to his beside when the dizziness got bad enough that he felt as though he might fall over. He lay his head back against the pillow, wishing that the nausea would just go away.

From time to time he opened his eyes, and this time he was confronted by an awful blurriness. Everything was blurred, and even that which he could see was doubled. His stomach lurched violently and he barely managed to grab the tray in time before he threw up, yet again. At this point it was nothing more than painful, stomach-wrenching bile. For a long moment he simply breathed in and out, until his stomach stopped searing with pain, before carefully lowering the tray. He wasn't sure he'd even be able to see enough to get up and take care of it when someone entered. A nurse, if the barely visible purple scrubs were any way to tell.

"Topher will be here when he's done with his patient," Molly said, carefully taking care of the tray, which made him feel slightly uncomfortable. It would be easier if she were a stranger. But he accepted he couldn't really do anything.

When alone again he was determined to keep his eyes closed, so that the blurred vision didn't make him nauseous again. The dryness in his throat only increased, and no amount of sips of water seemed to do anything to ease it. Over time he became aware of another trouble sensation, after he choked on his water trying to swallow. His throat was determined not to work properly. There was no pain or sensation of anything being stuck. He simply couldn't swallow properly, as if the muscle refused to respond.

A nagging suspicion was rising in the back of his mind. This wasn't some stomach flu or case of indigestion. When he tried to open his eyes, his eyelids barely moved, drooping down, unresponsive.

Could it be?

Topher finally found his way back, asking how he was doing. TC's mind was racing, although it was slowly becoming riddled with fatigue and panic.

"What time is it?" He asked, relieved he could at least speak, since it was hard to move his jaw.

He could practically sense Topher's confusion at the question, as if his friend was trying to figure out why he hadn't simply checked his phone. If he could see his phone, he'd have checked it.

"It's currently 2:40 AM," Topher replied.

TC thought quickly. They had eaten breakfast at 8:00 the previous morning. It had been 16 hours since then, and his symptoms had started several hours ago. It definitely fit the timetable of what he was thinking about, although he hoped desperately it wasn't the case. Because it would only get worse from here.

"Can you do a blood test, and check for.. botulism?"

There was a silence after his question. "Botulism? Are you sure?"

"Vision distortion, can't focus. Can't swallow. Hard to move my jaw. Can't open my eyes. And no fever," he spoke in clipped sentences, less a long one make it impossible for him to talk.

The paralysis would move down, effecting his shoulders and arms. And then, soon enough, his chest, paralyzing his diaphragm. Unless the antitoxin was administered in time. But they had to diagnose it first, and it seemed to be moving at a rapid pace.

"Okay..." Topher sounded uncertain, but after a few moments he could feel the telltale prick of a needle as the blood was drawn. "I'm going to have someone stay here, in case things get worse, okay?"

He tried to nod but lacked the strength to do so. "Alright."

Topher left him, rushing off with the blood sample. Meanwhile, TC struggled to remain calm, to keep shifting in the bed so that he would know it when he could no longer move his arms at all. Through it all the sharp pains in his stomach remained, although the nausea was at least starting to fade. He wasn't sure he'd be able to throw up if he tried, unable to control his throat. A dull ache was spreading through his muscles, as if he had simultaneously overused them all.

By the time someone entered his room, probably to make sure he didn't stop breathing, he could no longer move his hands. His body felt too weak, as if the very thought of motion was simply too much to bear.

Time ticked by. A nurse checked his eyes, shining a light, although all he could see was a faint blur, momentarily lit up, too bright. No pupil response. It was strange, being able to feel and see and know what was going on, but not respond or react. He could _feel_ the very same areas that he could not move, which was, in and of itself, an alarming situation.

He listened to people speak but at this point was unable to respond, muscles unresponsive to his commands.

And then it happened.

The normal rise and fall of his chest hitched. One, twice. Then it wouldn't rise. Even when he tried to breath himself. It was the rush of panic that first caught the nurse's attention, having hooked him up to the monitor to check on his heart rate and blood pressure. The moment his heart started racing, the screen began to beep. But the beeping barely caught his attention. It was the rush of fear, the dull ache in his chest as his body realized something was wrong but couldn't do anything to fix it. The pressure in his throat of his body trying to force him to breathe. It was like suffocating, but instead of being caused by the outside, his body was the reason.

He wasn't really aware of the chaos going on around him. Even as someone opened his mouth and began to push the tube down he was mostly aware of the panic. He didn't feel the needle that pricked his skin or even Topher arriving, having gotten results a few moments too late due to the busy lab.

He drifted.

He only regained consciousness for short periods of time, but couldn't remember them each time. It was a week later when he finally regained consciousness enough for his mind to kick in. Most likely it was the combination of sedatives to keep him calm, combined with painkillers for what they presumed was pain, that had numbed his mind.

He could feel the uncomfortable pressure of the breathing tube, but the muscles were still so paralyzed that he wouldn't gag. He could feel the rise and fall of his chest, aided by the machine. The soft sound of air gusting in and out. His muscles didn't hurt like they had before, and the pain in his stomach was gone. Replaced by an emptiness, but he didn't feel hunger. Likely one of the IV's nestled in his motionless arm was a nutrient drip. His throat sure was dry, and was burning, all the way down. Breathing tubes weren't made to be comfortable. Usually the people who needed them weren't conscious enough to feel them.

It took him far too long to be aware that he could open his eyes. Not all the way, and his vision certainly wasn't the best, but he could move them. And that was an improvement. He tried to focus on something, wishing there was, at the very least, a way to determine what day it was. Surely it had been days, for his throat to ache so much.

He either drifted off again or lost track of time, because the next thing he was aware of was desperate, aching _panic_. He was gagging, and with that realization came the next that realized he could breath on his own and even move. But that made the tube a rather difficult thing to deal with, unable to stop his body's reflex. He tried to raise his arms in a desperate attempt to remove it himself but the muscles were too weak to move far. Someone was talking to him but he wasn't able to stop himself from panicking long enough to hear anything other than _breath out._

So he tried, and the tube was carefully removed, although his throat was burning with pain. Sharp and prickly.

He coughed as it was removed, breathing very slowly, very quietly. His chest rose and fell with shallow movements. The muscles not quite ready for the job. His lungs only filling partway, but it was just enough to sustain him. He felt weak and tired, but significantly less weak than before.

His eyes opened slowly, carefully. Should his vision still be blurred and unable to see. But it was remarkably more normal, with pieces of picture coming together to form a coherent vision. It was Topher's face he noticed first, although Jordan's was nearby. He tried to form words, but his throat was so dry and painful that nothing came out. Or was he unable to speak because of the remnants of paralysis?

He wanted water, but wasn't sure he'd even be able to drink it.

"Don't move too much, your body is still fighting the toxin," Topher told him.

 _How long?_ Was what he wondered.

"It's been almost two weeks. After you were sick, a few others came in with the same symptoms. It was the restaurant. They use canned peppers, and one of the cans had the bacteria."

That explained the how. He hoped none of the others had died. Botulism could rapidly become fatal, especially when people didn't have the help of mechanical breathing.

"It may take a few days - or weeks - before you regain normal ability to move." The unsaid warning that some patient's never fully recovered was not necessary, but he knew they all thought it.

"You probably need some water," Jordan spoke up. He nodded, the movement weak and rather jerky. He accepted the water with relief, unable to raise his arms high enough to grab the glass. He then managed to choke as half the water went down the wrong hole, coughing as he realized he still couldn't swallow right.

It would not be a fun few weeks.

* * *

End chapter note: Why botulism, you may ask? Well, I wanted a food poisoning/sickness that did not cause... diarrhea. I just can't write about diarrhea. Not to mention it has unfortunate, dangerous symptoms and is just _rare_ enough to be something this show could have done at some point. Next up: The Hostage Situation. Following that: I think it's time to do a Part II of Impalation regarding healing/his friends seeing what's going on.


	15. Hostages (OS)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift.

Note: A hostage situation... It took me a little to decide on this, because I didn't want it to be completely outlandish, but I did finally decide on the plot. Also assuming his parents are dead because we never saw anything about them - if I missed an important convo in the series about them let me know, I always wondered...

* * *

TC had a nervous feeling when he decided to go with Jordan to help pick up some food and supplies for their in-hospital celebration of Thanksgiving. They did it every year, the night before Thanksgiving simply as a party between coworkers. The benefit of the Night Shift was they were at least home during the _day_ of the holiday, if they really wanted to stay awake during their normal resting hours. Since TC didn't really have any family to celebrate with he often stayed home, although he was always invited to Topher's Thanksgiving with his family. He hadn't often gone, however. Thanksgiving just didn't seem like Thanksgiving, without his parents and Thad. He could still remember getting up in the morning to the smell of roasting turkey, helping prepare the table, finishing cleaning, waiting impatiently for the food to be ready as family visited.

The memory sent a prickle of pain through him, like it did with every holiday. It reminded him of the time his family was still there. And now they weren't, and sometimes he just wished he could go back in time to the way things were before.

Jordan glanced back at him as they walked, as if aware of the thoughts that were going through his head. Time and time again she had seen his aversion to the holidays, as if he didn't celebrate them at all. He used to. It was always a tumultuous time of the year. Whereas others were excited and joyous, falling into the spirit of the holidays, he found himself reeling back, away from haunting memories that only brought grief.

"I'll get the food if you want to get the decorations and plastic plates. We always run out of those," Jordan said, trying to pull him out of his thoughts.

He nodded. He didn't often go shopping, especially not with someone else around. They had stopped at a small local store, family-owned. It wasn't too busy, unlike most popular big stores would be, and that was all fine with him. He wandered off to the seasonal aisle, to the sparse remaining decorations. The ER didn't need much. They typically only got the hanging wall decals and fake pumpkins and squash, and he saw no reason to change that this year.

After a few minutes he heard a gunshot. And while it wasn't in his general area, he reacted, dropping everything he had grabbed and crouching down defensively. Glancing around, he determined the sound of the shot had come from the front. Near the coolers, in the grocery area.

 _Jordan._

Ignoring any prospect of keeping himself safe he rushed quietly forward, poking his head around the end of the aisle. He saw two men with guns - or more accurately, teenagers, if he could see them right - and a motionless body on the floor. They were yelling at each other, one seemingly not having his head quite in the plan. He kept looking while they argued, trying to see Jordan. And there she was, hiding herself between two mid-aisle display bins. She met TC's look with one of her own, motioning towards the body and making a 'dead' sign with her hands.

If it had been an intentional killing, then they would probably leave and not harm anyone else.

"Shut up and gather everyone here," one of them snapped.

There went that idea. TC moved back, thinking. He could get away if he made a run for it right now, before the gunman saw him. But that would leave Jordan, and he couldn't risk leaving her behind and her getting hurt. So he waited.

The gunman got to Jordan first, and instead of just ordering her to where they wanted all their hostages, he roughly grabbed her by her hair, pulling her to her feet while angrily telling her to make any sudden movements. Her slight yelp of pain was all that was needed to send TC over that ever present edge, and he slammed in to the guy. One arm went to shove the gun into the air so it wouldn't set off and hit anyone. The other punched the guy brutally in the face.

"Get your hands off her," he nearly snarled, furious.

Someone was yelling in the background. He half expected to be shot at any moment, but this man seemed to be a bit more reserved. After struggling briefly, he moved to avoid getting hit in the stomach, only to take the butt of the gun directly in the face. The edge of hard metal collided with his cheek bone, sending a sharp pain through his face. The rest of it hit after, with enough brunt force that he he staggered backwards, hitting off the edge of a pumpkin bin before dropping to the floor. His ears rang, and the world spun briefly. In the midst of his confusion he was aware of Jordan trying to help him, but she was ordered away, to that strange area where apparently people wouldn't be a threat.

He was hauled up by collar, head spinning a new as he staggered forward. The hit had been hard enough to rattle his brain, and he was shoved to the ground next to Jordan before he managed to get his bearings back.

"You okay?" Jordan whispered quietly, touching his bleeding cheek. The pain from the light pressure was sharp, and he flinched away slightly. He wouldn't be surprised if the bone was bruised, or even cracked, with how hard the gun had hit.

"Yeah," he replied automatically, knowing she wouldn't believe him.

He looked at the gunman, observing quietly. One was a teenager, but the other was older. In his 20s, most likely. The teenager was the one he had fought with, and one of his eyes was slowly but surely swelling up from the hit. He seemed much more nervous than his companion, pacing now that they had everything under control, while the older guy was simply waiting, thinking. Eyes sharp and focused. He was leaner and not built quite so strongly, but TC knew he was the real threat here. The decision maker.

"What are we going to do now?" The teenager asked, voice sharp with panic. "The cops are here already."

Panic was dangerous. He must have missed the sound of sirens while his head had been swirling. The response time was fast, probably because there was a station not far from the shop.

"We have all we need," the Organizer - as TC decided to dub him from this point on - replied with a hint of impatience. His eyes looked over at the hostages, a clear idea in his mind. Besides TC and Jordan, and the dead employee, there were four. The cashier must have bolted at the gunshot, along with whoever had been near the entrance. All the better for them, really.

TC met his eyes, managing to look truly unimpressed.

Perhaps he should have been acting the regular hostage, averting eye contact and acting afraid. But there was anger in him, and unlike the rest of the people he was used to people with guns.

"What are you?" Later Jordan would tell him that drawing attention to himself just by existing was dangerous to his health. "A cop?" He chose not to react. He also chose not to respond, but that didn't seem to bother Organizer who simply kept going. "Military?" He blinked. It was enough of an answer. The man's eyes seem to harden, a cold look crossing his face. "My dad was in the military."

TC wasn't sure why he chose to share this tidbit of information. He simply shrugged, then chose to stare at the shelves.

Jordan shouldn't be here. She should be somewhere else, somewhere safe. He didn't like the way the teen's eyes - or eye, at this point, since the second was now swollen shut - kept straying towards her. He tensed defensively. He wasn't quite sure what these people wanted. If they wanted cash they would have raised the cash register from the beginning. Which meant they wanted something other than money. But why pick this place? Or was it all about the victim?

"Everyone lie face down, hands over your heads," Organizer said. "No sudden movements, and no one gets hurt."

A little too late for that. But something told TC it was more of a way to maintain control than to prevent others from seeing their face. It would be a lot harder to get up from that position and strike than from a sitting position.

He moved slowly, as requested, but he kept his eyes open, looking for movement. Just as he got down, raising his arms, he heard a flurry of motion by his side. "He said slowly," the teenager snapped, and he felt a boot dig into his side. He winced, forcing himself not to lower his arms. The guy was likely angry about being hit, and ignoring the fresh throb in his side he hid his smirk with the floor. He was lucky to only have a swollen eye after he grabbed Jordan in such a way.

"No one talks," Organizer warned.

And no one did. The temporary silence was interrupted by the sound of the phone ringing. A negotiator.

He wished he would be able to listen to at least one side of the conversation but the phone was too far in the distance. They were left behind with the teenager, who paced anxiously, caught up in stress. It would ruin them, in the end.

Eventually he came back.

"They want us to release a hostage as a sign of good faith. I think we should," Organizer said. But TC felt a surge of alarm at his words. Because there was an arrogance in them, a sense of humor. He wasn't going to be releasing a hostage. He was going to be killing one. His muscles tensed, readying himself like a serpent ready to strike, because he couldn't let anyone get killed by these buffoons, even though there wasn't much of a chance of him taking out both of them before something went wrong.

"But we'll wait. Let them get antsy."

He wasn't sure if the _them_ was the hostages or the police. Perhaps it was both.

They waited. Time ticked by. The phone rang again and again, unanswered. The teenager paced, impatient, frustrated. His muscles began to ache from the strain of being prepared to fight, so he allowed himself to relax. If anyone stepped close he would react all the same. Blood trickled from the cut on his face, eventually slowing to a halt. The opening wasn't deep. The bruising was, and he found it painful to move his jaw. His head throbbed rhythmically with his heartbeat. For a brief time he found himself relaxing too far, almost forgetful of the reason he was here.

Then movement, as if by silent command. The teenager stepped close, and he tensed, ready to fight for the weapon. A surge of rage when the kid reached for Jordan, their choice of who they would shoot in the back as she left.

He surged upward with all the strength he could manage, headbutting the kid in the face. There was a crack, a gush of blood. He lashed out, striking down on the gun arm, and heard it hit the floor a moment later. To him time slowed as he aimed to sock the guy in his other eye, but the blow was blocked. Not by a limb, but by a solid metal. Pain stabbed his hand and rippled like a shockwave all the way down to his shoulder, and he pulled back with a his. _Fuck,_ that hurt.

He took a moment to pause, think. Organizer had interfered, bringing down a metal _baking tray_ between him and the teenager. Instead of shooting. Why?

The gun was drawn, but it wasn't pointed at him just yet. He had to stop it from being raised. He lashed out with his other hand, the one that wasn't broken, catching the guy in the shoulder. The gun flew out of his hand, and bounced off a wall, where it fired, towards the front of the store where glass shattered.

 _Shit._

Arms wrapped around his shoulders, yanking him back. He elbowed the teenager in the gut, and received a brutal fist to the center of his back for the trouble. He staggered, tingling numbness from his spine protesting the hit rippling down his legs. A moment long enough for him to get manhandled, thrown backwards. The top of his head smashed into something hard, followed by his back, and he slid awkwardly to the ground. His body ached, his wounds burned. His hand was on fire, and his wrist didn't feel much better.

Blood ran down his head and the back of his neck was wet. It hurt to turn his head, to see that he had bashed it on the corner of a shelving unit that surprisingly remained upright, although now had a smear of blood on it.

Organizer had grabbed one of the fallen guns, a twisted look on his face, pointing it at TC as he approached. Directly into the eyesight of those at the entrance. TC turned his gaze away at the far distant shot, heard the gasp of pain that wasn't his own. He looked back as the man fell to the floor, a gunshot wound in his chest. Not instantly fatal, but he knew simply from the location that no one could do anything to stop the bleeding.

The kid froze. Eyes wide with panic, mouth open. He was still behind the shelves in the aisle, blocking him from sight.

"Just do what they say... and you'll be alright," TC tried to say, voice weak from pain. Tried to reason, so that a second - no, third - body didn't hit the ground dead. The kid looked around, still stunned. Then he ran. Surprisingly he was not shot down when he ran out the door, arms raised in terror.

Jordan crawled over to him, a hand wrapping around to the back of his head, instantly coated with blood.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"Had to... he wasn't going to let anyone go. He would have shot you in the back," he replied, his words slurred. Damn, his head hurt. And bled. He could feel it trickling down the skin, both in front, and in back. He didn't think it broke his skull but it definitely tore into the skin. His head was spinning.

"You're still an idiot," she told him as the police swarmed the building, checking for more gunmen. When they cleared the building the paramedics would come to take care of the injured - and the dead. His consciousness was wavering, but he focused long enough to reply.

"I'm your idiot."

* * *

End chapter note: I always picture him rushing in to get himself hurt just to protect people - especially Jordan. Next up: Impalation (why is that not a word?) part 2. Followed by a mugging!


	16. Impaled Part 2 (OS)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift. I am also not a doctor or a medical professional. I'm taking pathophisiology though so does that count?

Note: Ah Impaled... one of my favorite stories so far. And seemingly, one of the favorite by the readers also! So I'll go another part to it because it's surely going to be a difficult injury to recover from, not mentioning complications. Going to do some more Ragosa POV for this since he was in the original too! As well as Topher because friends.

* * *

It had been a day since he woke to the tube and the desperate feeling of suffocation. His lung still hurt with every breath, even more now that he wasn't quite interested in having too many painkillers. Mostly because they confused him, and he kept waking up in the midst of a nightmare or in a general panic because his chest hurt. His chest rose and fell, reminding him that he had a badly busted up, wired in pace rib. That seemed to hurt the most, given the bone damage involved, and he had little interest in movement. The very basics were tolerable, so long as he did not try to change position, or turn his torso. Even then the simple act of breathing was very uncomfortable.

The pain was getting worse, rather than getting better. But it had only been a day, and the painkillers probably finally wore off completely, so he chose not to consider it a problem. There was pressure in his lung, and sometimes he was aware of the sensation that it was becoming hard to breath. But the pressure seemed to fade. It was likely just his imagination.

The worst was the coughing. It happened randomly, a sudden itch in his chest that he couldn't ignore. His body's response to the inflammation. It often felt like a fire had been set in his lung, his broken rib grinding agonizingly, torn muscle protesting the harsh movements. Then he'd wheeze as he tried to get the cough back under control. He hated it, and he wanted nothing more than to rip his own lungs out when he coughed. Occasionally the bandages bled through when his coughing tore the stitches at the surface, but there wasn't really anything that could be done in that regard. He was given medicine to try and prevent and ease the coughing but it barely seemed to work, and so he simply had to hope that the random bouts would occur less frequently as he healed.

But over the next several days, he began to feel much worse. He felt weak, as if lying in the bed for just a few days so he wouldn't sit up and tear his stitches had destroyed his muscles. He woke up, after sleeping, to intense pressure in his chest. He tried to clear it, but it was as if his lungs themselves were congested. His chest itched endlessly and he had to force himself not to scratch at the skin in desperation. It was _healing_. Supposedly.

Ragosa was there that time. The man had visited a few times, his broken arm plastered tight. "How are you feeling? You look tired for having just woken up."

TC raised an eyebrow at him. Truth be told he felt very tired, despite having slept almost decently, only waking up a few times from fits of agonizing coughing. He felt a nagging suspicion but he had no interest in confirming it. Not right now, anyway. "I'm alright."

He had to cough, but he managed to stifle it after a few small ones. His chest blazed painfully, despite his efforts.

"Need more cough medicine?" Although Ragosa was technically not allowed to be working with his injury, there was no law against giving someone cough medicine from a random store around the corner, even in a hospital.

"I think..." And the he broke off, his chest suddenly wracked by a fit of coughing he couldn't stifle. Fire rippled across his chest, and for a brief moment in time he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop. The world seemed to flash dangerously, and he wasn't sure if it was the pain or the lack of time to breath between coughing that did it. He managed to stop, but he knew something was wrong. He could taste it in his mouth, see it on his hand.

Blood.

* * *

 **Ragosa POV**

When the second coughing fit went on and on violently he knew something was wrong. He had been coughing a lot more than before, and although it could be a sign of healing, the pallor of his skin and the look of tiredness said something else was going on. Ragosa managed to get someone's attention in the hall before he turned back to the very uncomfortable looking TC, and his eyes fell upon the blood on his lips.

Shit.

He could see he was still breathing, albeit it, heavily and with difficulty. He could hear the reason even from where he stood. The blood was dark red, not bright red - almost black. Not fresh blood. It was, however, the indication for something equally serious.

Pneumonia.

Topher had rushed into the room behind him, clearly wondering what was going on, and why he had been called. His eyes narrowed with worry as he looked at TC, taking his stethoscope off to listen to his lungs. His expression was enough of a confirmation, as he pulled back. "Your left lung is full of fluid," Topher said. "Some of the bacteria must have survived the initial antibiotics." The older doctor gently removed the pink bandage on his chest. Revealing red skin, oozing thick, red-tinged pus. It looked like there was more than one infection raging at the moment, and it at least explained why he looked so pale and sick.

"Can you find Scott and... Drew," he knew Topher was going to say Jordan but changed his mind. "I'll need them in here."

Ragosa nodded, leaving the room only to find that most of the ER had already gathered nearby, as if aware something was wrong when Topher had gone in. He raised an eyebrow at the commotion but determined that it likely wasn't very busy right now.

"Just an infection," he said rapidly after many faces turned to him expectantly. "And possibly pneumonia. Topher's looking for you," he said to Scott who had been signing papers at the desk. He didn't see Drew, but surely the doctor was around here somewhere, though he was probably dealing with yet another patient of his own.

* * *

 **Topher POV**

He should have known. He had been feeling a little suspicious over the past few days when the coughing had gotten worse and he seemed to be more pained, with slower, deeper respirations, but he had been quick to blame it on the pain his friend was trying so hard to hide. But now it was clear that not only had the initial course of antibiotics done nothing to prevent the current infections, but he had also been getting significantly worse as opposed to better. it was really a 'TC thing' to do, to feel worse and not mention it but the reality was he probably had simply assumed the same as Topher. He had always been the kind of person to hide pain and also refuse painkillers. He had his reasons.

"I'm going to sit up you a little bit to help you breath," Topher said. His chest seemed to rattle with every breath, and he was clearly taxing himself with the effort of getting enough air. While his friend nodded he also went stiff and pale with the pain that the small motion of the bed brought, not just from the pieced together rib but the muscle that had been ripped completely apart.

He still recalled when the paramedics had brought him in, unable to breath on his own, piles of blood-soaked gauze beneath him and on his side. Thankfully unconscious. They had spent nearly six hours in surgery stitching together muscle, draining, repairing and re-inflating the lung. Draining the wound of blood and fluids, stitching some more, packing it with gauze and everything they could to keep it dry and hopefully free of infection. But the wound had not only been dirty but there had been flecks of rust strewn about. Shards of rebar lodged in his ribs. And he should have expected nothing more for a post-op infection, considering all that happened.

Optimism.

Fortunately the hoarseness of his breathing seemed to ease slightly once Topher sat him up. He was already running through a list of possible antibiotics. Something very strong, to kill off the infection quickly before it could further damage the injured tissues. And when TC started to cough once again, writhing painfully and speckling his hand with dark blood, he decided they would need something to help with that too.

For once TC didn't resist when they gave him a mild sedative, enough that they would be able to, once again, clean the wound. It was messy and the flesh was bright red with inflammation, a sign of why he was in so much pain. When Drew got in he helped set up a mask with increased oxygen as well as compounds to help ease the breathing and coughing. The less he coughed the better, especially when it came down to healing. Every cough aggravated the injury. Applying a fresh, clean sheet of gauze, he set up another IV with antibiotics, which would hopefully be powerful enough to take care of both infections. Time would tell, but now he would watch much more closely.

* * *

 **TC POV**

Breathing was easier next time he woke. Lungs inflating - one more than the other - without pinching painfully. He couldn't feel much at the moment, which was a result of the local that would eventually wear itself off. He knew they had to recut the stitches to drain the internal infection, so he probably had brand new stitches, and a brand new bandage. He left the mask in place, deciding it was more beneficial on. The ache in his throat from coughing had been soothed, and he didn't feel quite so congested or full of pressure. He wouldn't admit it but it was a major relief, not being able to feel. Because he knew soon enough all the sensations would come back, strong as before.

Even the itching had faded, which was an immense relief.

Over the next few days the pain returned, but the coughing remained under control. The pneumonia eventually went away, after nearly a week of antibiotics. His wound was healing slowly, but he had at list been given a chance to go home. The worst was the painful sensation in his rib, which would heal the slowest of all his injuries, being a bone.

His legs felt weak after over a week or mostly being bedridden. He was in a way lucky he could walk at all, as being bedridden caused quite a few issues. Despite the weakness he hobbled forward, forcing himself to keep going. One hand hovered over his rib, which throbbed painfully from its wired cage to prevent it from moving. Eventually when the bone healed back together they would probably have to remove the wire, but until then, it was a new addition to his body. His increased breathing made it worse, lungs expanding more, rib cage moving out more.

"It won't hurt if you rest a little more," Jordan said, from where she was watching him, visibly worried. She had wanted him to rest a little longer but he just wanted to be up and around. And go home.

"I'm fine. Just not used to walking."

And the rib felt pretty damn awful but he probably didn't need to talk about that. His movements were slow but he carried on, taking to keep his breathing shallow so as to ease the pain in his chest. He made it to the hallway, where he checked to make sure it was clear. It was embarrassing getting so much attention from his coworkers, although he was lucky it was still daytime.

"I'm driving you home," Jordan's voice offered no argument.

That was fine. He was going to have go on a hunt to find where he had left his bike.

He was happy to leave the hospital behind. The smell of medicine and bandages and sterility. The constant beeping and noises. Sure he worked there but he didn't usually stay for an entire week. He checked himself out while the suspicious day-shift nurse studied him with doubtful eyes, and limped slowly to the door.

"Let's get out of here."

* * *

End chapter note: Whew. That's all I can say for that. I'm happy how these two parts went, and hopefully the ending was conclusive enough for everyone. Next update will be a mugging. After that, I will be doing something of a home invasion sort. And I did NOT forget about the suggestion to do something with the forest fire. I just haven't quite decided on what to do. My initial hostage idea was a rewrite of the S1 finale but none of my ideas for that sat well. I will try to do one in the future, however.


	17. Mugged (OS)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift. I am also not a doctor or a medical professional. I'm taking pathophisiology though so does that count?

Note: A mugging. Not a nice one, either. He won't enjoy it, but we will.

* * *

The streets were empty. Unsurprising for 2 AM, on a rather chiller 'winter' night. He tucked his hands in his pockets, breath fogging the air in front of him. It wasn't cold enough for ice, so the cold rain from the past hour splashed underfoot. He had a night off, a rare occasion for him, and he found himself idly walking around town, considering going to the bar to get cheap food. It was better than going home and cooking to an empty house. A night off was a rare occasion that he usually shared with a friend, but they were all scheduled to work that night. Cars sped by, lights reflecting off the wet surface of the road, splashing icy water up around their tires.

He walked close to the buildings to avoid getting hit by the wave of water, not really interested in getting soaked. Lost in his thoughts, it was a bit of a surprise when he felt a hand wrench on his arm and throw him to the ground.

He rolled, quickly coming to his feet and prepared to react. The massive knife currently held in the hand of the hand of his attacker gave him pause. It was a full on block knife that could easily gut him with a single swipe. So he backed off rather than charging the guy, noting the shifting and shaking, and the wild expression on his face. If it wasn't dark out he would probably have eyes bright with paranoia, confusion, caused by whatever substance he was currently using.

He realized he was cornered. The alley blocked off by the back of another building, rather than into another street. He tried to keep his distance, to determine what this guy wanted.

"Give me your wallet," the words were slurred. With rage? Confusion? Drunkenness?

It took a brief moment for TC to realize he was being mugged and the thought of it nearly made him crack up laughing. Of everything he expected to happen to him at a given time, being mugged was at the bottom of the list. But here he was, staring down a giant knife and hoping to hell the guy didn't decide to slice him open with it.

"Okay, here it is," he replied calmly, pulling it from his pocket. He didn't carry much cash on him so he wasn't worried on losing a lot of money. Stolen credit cards could be canceled as soon as he was free, unless the guy decided to kill him, in which case it wouldn't matter anyway. He threw his wallet at the guy's feet, so as to not spook him, and continued to back away to keep the distance.

The man leaned down, grabbing the wallet, shifty eyes still fixed on TC. He kept moving backwards, and managed to step on something that made a sharp crunch.

And it set the man off. TC had a split second to react, lurching sideways to avoid the lunge and subsequent slice of the knife. He lashed out as the man stumbled past him, kicking him in the side, hoping to unbalance him. Then he would take off, not wanting to risk his life in a ridiculous alley fight. The man moved with surprising clarity for someone who was drugged out of his mind, and slashed out again. He backed up again to avoid it, feeling the stone wall behind him. He was going to get gutted, he was sure.

He blocked the knife arm, trying to shove the guy back, but his attacker managed to get his a fistful of his shirt in the other hand. TC stumbled forward, pulled by the momentum. A moment later the entirety of the knife buried itself in his abdomen.

The shock was instant. It preceded the pain, blocking it for however long it would take his mind to push through. He felt a heat in his stomach, deep inside. The knife just short enough not to puncture all the way through to his back. There was a ringing in his ears that had nothing to do with a head injury, that soon turned into the roaring sound of blood pulsing through his veins. His vision swam. He felt a sudden weakness in his legs, and he began to sag down, trying desperately to hold still. The other guy's grip on him prevented him from sliding to the ground, face stunningly empty of emotion. A blank canvas.

He didn't feel the pain until the knife was pulled out. Sudden, agonizing, pain through the middle of his gut. It was numbed again when the knife went in a second time, also in his abdomen, but a little to the left this time. It was removed rather quickly, and the man, as if struck by a sudden realization of what he was doing, backed away.

The blood-soaked knife dropped to the ground with a clang. TC followed it, dropping to his knees before he fell forward, face down on the cold wet ground.

The shock left him immobilized for what must have been a full minute. When it cleared, the pain burning through the fog, he forced himself to roll on his back. Pain gripped his stomach, practically every inch feeling as though it had been ripped open. He forced his hands to press down on the gaping, bleeding stab wounds, before his mind caught up, and he knew if he was going to survive he needed to call for help.

He moved one blood-streaked hand for his pocket, feeling for his phone.

He coughed weakly as something itched in the back of his throat, and tasted blood on his tongue. And he knew it wasn't from his lungs. He couldn't seem to get a grip on his phone, his hand shaking so bad that he did no more than leave bloodied marks across its surface. He tried to raise it back to cover his second wound, but no longer had the strength to do so.

He heard footsteps, and worried it was the man coming back to finish the job.

"What the hell?" A voice. A man's voice, but it was different from his attacker's. "Oh my God."

The person ran up to him and he tried not to flinch away. One hand on a phone, calling an ambulance. As soon as he was done he dropped down beside TC's, who vision was graying out into the darkness. His hand, lacking the strength necessary to apply pressure to the wound was simply moved aside, and he choked on a pained cry when _actual_ pressure was placed. The pain brought him back to focus, reviving his thoughts. He could see the badge on the man's hip, although not a weapon. An off duty officer? It was his lucky day, because the alternative, at this hour, would have been to be found by drunks stumbling from bars, if he was found at all before he bled to death.

"What happened?" The man asked. In the back of his mind TC knew the question wasn't really to find out what happened but an attempt to keep him conscious and responsive.

"Guy.. wanted wallet," he was surprised he was able to reply in a way that was audible. The pain made his throat feel tight, a strange tension pulsing through his body. A different form of shock, following the initial injury. He knew soon the blood loss would get to him, not just from the outside, but the internal bleeding from punctured organs. There was no way, with such a large knife, that his attacker would have missed vital organs _twice_.

"You gave it to him?"

"Yes..." But his eyes fell upon the wallet lying on the ground a fair distance away. Did the man not grab it before he ran off? Had he panicked so much that his initial plan was forgotten? "But he must have dropped it."

He fell silent, wishing the pain would fade.

Even with the hands pressing uncomfortably on the wounds they still bled rapidly. He could feel the growing wet spot as it soaked into his shirt, running down his sides and onto the cold pavement. Cold. At first he had felt unnaturally warm, but now he was simply cold and clammy and was sure if he moved at all he would be sick. But it was alright, because in away, he would rather lay here and simply fall asleep.

"Hey, stay awake, alright? They will be here soon... just stay awake."

The voice faded.

* * *

 **Scott POV**

If someone had told him he would be operating on TC who had two deep, massive stab wounds in his gut, he would have laughed at them. But here he stood, staring down at the heavily bleeding wounds and wondering how likely survival would be with the current blood loss. Several bags of blood had already been set up before he had gotten here, and how many more would be needed. From the looks of things, plenty. There was no time to waste, with a rapid heart rate and low vitals.

It didn't look good. One of the wounds had punctured through his stomach, nicked his pancreas, and sliced a great number of veins. The second sliced his colon and practically cut his gallbladder in half, the latter of which would need to come out. At least it wasn't a more serious organ.

He stitched together tissue. He removed the ruined gall bladder in two pieces, the thin strand keeping it together falling out when he grabbed it. All the while the wounds bled continuously, hardly seeming to slow no matter how much he did.

The code was inevitable. It was still startling when the monitor blared and the heart rate flat-lined. The shock was simply too much, and Drew began chest compressions as they readied the defibrillator. The first shock did nothing. As did the second. But the third, seeming to live up to its name, got a rhythm. For how long he didn't know, but he renewed his work, trying to get as much done as possible in hopes to avoid another code, one that may not end well.

Five more bags of blood later, he managed to finish the larger of the stab wounds, before quickly moving to the other to finish.

Considering the extensive damage they were lucky to have only lost him once. But there would still be danger, especially given the nature of the wounds. A high risk for infection due to the punctures to his organs which had bled and lost fluids into other bodily cavities.

His skin was still extremely pale from blood loss, and it would take some time for the combination of the blood bag and his body to replenish the blood supply. While he was no longer shocky, any one of the stitches or sutures rupturing would probably send him flying back into hypovulemic shock. If it didn't end up killing him, given the extensive trauma. It wasn't always blood loss or infection that killed. Sometimes the wounds themselves were enough to overwhelm the body on their own.

* * *

 **Jordan POV**

She couldn't decide what emotion to settle on. Anger? Concern? Fear? Frustration? Maybe all of them. For nearly two days he had lain unconscious, pale as a ghost, practically drinking antibiotics, saline, painkillers, and the cocktail of medications he had been put on to help his organs function. She didn't know anything, except that he had been stabbed twice in an alley, the weapon left at the scene. And for all she knew, he had gotten himself into a fight, egged on by his inability to tolerate doing nothing, or from a gambling scene gone wrong. She wished it would surprise her if that was what happened, but she found herself unable to push the doubt away.

Even though he hadn't had any alcohol in him. He didn't need to be drunk to start a fight.

And there was also guilt, for believing the worst. When he was lying motionless before her, looking more fragile and weak than she had ever seen him. And when he finally began to wake up, the relaxation immediately changing to stress and tension, a flash of pain stretching across his face, her emotions warred within for an appropriate response.

"You manage to find trouble wherever you go," were the words that came out, almost without approval. Although her tone wasn't angry, she could feel the nervous flutters in her stomach, the tension in her back, not just from waiting for so long. If he wasn't completely out of it, he would probably pick up on it too. One day they would come into the ER with the news that he had gotten himself killed in a bar fight, and she doubted anyone would be very surprised at all.

"Trouble found me this time," he replied, keeping his eyes closed, his voice weak.

She frowned at his reply. "Found you? Made a bad bet?" She cringed slightly at her own harshness, although he didn't seem to react at all.

"Was just walking by. The guy wanted my wallet," his voice was completely emotionless.

She felt a near crushing guilt. She had been very quick to judge him as having gotten himself stabbed by doing something stupid, not really considering the possibility that sometimes things just happened. Of all the things out there, some guy had wanted his wallet.

She backtracked. "They're still looking for the guy..." Which she had overheard from some police officers who had stuck around hoping to get some information from TC when he was conscious again. "How are you feeling?" She asked, when she saw him grimace in pain and move his hand to hover over his stomach. The majority of the pain would most likely be coming from the pancreas, which although had not been hit quite so hard, was still sliced and inflammed.

"Just... throbbing." It was probably much more than throbbing but she knew he was downplaying the pain. "What'd it hit?"

"The knife hit your stomach, and a small section of your pancreas. And the second.. hit your colon and your gall bladder. They had to remove your gall bladder... there was no saving that," she added. She had seen the remains of it on the surgical tray.

He grimaced at that. "So I'm stuck here and I can't even have a burger?"

She smiled at his joke, even though his face went pale, probably from nausea as a result of the thought of food.

"You should get more rest before you start thinking about any of that. And don't even think about siting up." Those stitches needed to stay in as long as possible so he didn't risk opening up an internal injury and bleeding to death with no one the wiser.

As if a testament to how crappy he felt, he simply nodded.

* * *

End chapter note: When it comes to a stabbing... might as well make it a big knife, right? Anyway... next post will be a home invasion sort of thing, with nothing more than violence. BUT I'll just mention it's Thanksgiving week. I'm going to be busy this week with work (retail bleh) and of course, cooking Thanksgiving and what not. I will try to post the next story on Wednesday but if I don't, expect it no later than the weekend. All depends on my shift on Friday! If I don't update by Wednesday then have a happy Thanksgiving (should you celebrate it). I will take the extra hours at work to try and decide what to write next.


	18. Invasion (OS)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift. I am also not a doctor or a medical professional. I'm taking pathophisiology though so does that count?

Note: So... warning! The first part of this will contain domestic abuse. The rest will contain the whump.

* * *

A woman stumbled through the doors of the ER before she dropped to the ground. TC rushed to catch her, already noting the blood soaking the side of her head, hair sticky with mats of blood. Her breathing was fast and panicked, her chest moving inward with each inhale rather than out. "Get a gurney!" He yelled to the people who had stopped to stare, immediately lying the women gently on her back. The movements would be associated with a broken rib cage. How she even made it through the doors walking was enough of a surprise. The other surprise was that she was wearing long pants and a long sleeved shirt when it was over 100 degrees out.

The gurney arrived, and he and Drew lifted her cautiously onto it, trying not to jostle her ribs. She remained mostly still, body trembling slightly, struggling to breath. He helped to roll her into a trauma room, a nurse rushing to get the room and vitals settled.

"Flail chest," TC reported. Many fractured or broken ribs. Or both. He pulled up her shirt and they both froze.

Bruises marred her stomach, her sides, her chest. Old and new. Bruises from a fist, bruises from a kick, hand-marks. She had been brutally beaten, and judging by the age of some of the bruises, it had not been for the first time. He turned to the nurse, who finished setting the IV for painkiller. "Get an officer at the door, okay?"

It was just a precaution.

In cases like these, where there was signs of abuse over a long period of time rather than just a one time event, it was usually from a family member. He didn't want to make judgments like that, as it wasn't his place, but it was better to be safe than to let an abusive family member or friend come charging in and trying to take control - emotionally - of the patient.

"Ma'am do you know who did this to you?" Drew asked, while she was still conscious in order to forward the answers to the cops.

Her eyes widened with fear at the question. "No, no. I don't know. It was an accident," she said rapidly. "Just an accident." Her eyes began to drift shut, taken hold by the strength of the sedatives pulsing through her veins.

Over the next hour they found five fractured ribs, one of which was broken. Severe bruising across much of her torso, around her neck, on her shoulders and arms. One of her wrists was broken, her shoulder severely sprained and swollen. X-rays confirmed a history of fractured and broken ribs, as well as prior breaks to her arms and the bones of her hands. It was one of the worst cases TC had ever seen, and he found himself pacing, agitated, outside her room after she was treated.

And angry. Because no one deserved to be treated that way, and he wanted to know the kind of monster that could do that.

She woke up before any family arrived, and he went in to check on her. She was weak from the sedation, and he wasn't sure she was fully aware of what was going on. But her eyes fell upon him when he entered and she flinched, a small, hardly noticeable movement. An instinct.

"You're safe here," he said gently. "Your husband will be coming in a few hours," he said, noticing the way she tensed fearfully at the words.

Her eyes widening, she shook her head in weak, fearful motions. "We don't have to let him in," he said more softly. "Is that what you would like?" It seemed almost unfair to be pulling the truth of what had happened to her while she was still not fully aware, but he knew, should they not get the truth now they may never get it, and the next time she was beaten she would end up in a body bag. He was willing to stretch the rules of ethics just a little bit if it meant saving lives.

She nodded at him, but as of yet she had not spoken. Was she afraid to speak, or was it the damage to her trachea from strangulation that left her unable to?

He let Jordan talk to her about her options. A place she could stay where she would be safe, allowed to heal, that would deal with the legalities of the marriage. Where he wouldn't be able to find her.

And while this woman would be saved he was all too aware that for everyone one of her, there were a dozen more that slipped through the cracks and did not get saved. Who went back home to their abusive families and more often than not, never made it back.

A few hours later the husband arrived, reeking of alcohol and scruffy and furious. Demanding to see his wife, demanding to know what had happened all the while his eyes shifted from the nurses to the uniformed officers lining the hallway. The moment he made the connection and his entire body stiffened with rage, his shouts echoing down the hallway. TC wanted nothing more than to drive a fist into his face, again and again until it was beyond recognition. But instead he simply took the man aside.

"Your wife came in badly beaten. For her safety - because she was hurt so badly - we cannot allow anyone to see her," was what he said, instead of the burning need to accuse this man of domestic abuse.

"I need to see her," he said. "What did she say?"

He stared the angry man in the eye. His knuckles were split and bruises. "She is being placed into a protection facility. You will never be able to hurt her again." This he said with a certain smugness. Rules be damned. He felt satisfaction at the sheer fury, and perhaps, fear, on the man's face as he screamed a barely audible string of curses, waving his arms, and then storming off as the officers began to approach.

Unfortunately there wasn't a verbal accusation in which they could arrest him with.

A few more hours brought about the end of his shift, and he wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep. Passing by the nurse's station he caught sight of the emergency contacts folders lying open on the desk, but didn't think anything about it. They had a new nurse, and they were probably getting her paperwork added.

He was too tired to notice anything was wrong, the first few steps into his house, until something struck him from behind. Or, more accurately, a metal object of some sort struck him along the center of his spine and sent him toppling forward. The pain was dull and radiated down his back, and it took him a long moment - far too long, considering he was an ex-Ranger - that someone was in his home. He rolled as his instincts kicked in, barely avoiding the pipe that was en route to his head. It hit the floor beside him, splintering the hard wood. He got a look of the man's face, and was surprised to see it was the abusive husband, his face twisted in an ugly look of fury and some misguided attempt at grief.

"She was mine!" Were the only words the man said, ridged with anger.

TC surged upwards in time to block the next hit with his arms, the impact sending shards of pain into the muscle. The bone held, but he was sure if his arm had been tilted at just a slightly different angle it would be a different story. He struck a debilitating hit to the throat, but it missed by the man's sudden move sideways. He ducked the pipe, lurched back to avoid a kick. He landed one hit on the man's stomach, thrown off by flash of movement, before he was struck in the chin.

He should have guessed that after a few years of using his wife as a punching bag, the guy knew how to hit a punch.

He staggered back against his counter top, realizing the struggle had moved them swiftly into the kitchen. He saw the broken window out of the corner of his eye, and quickly decided that after this he was going to have to install a security system.

He caught the next swipe of the pipe, the strength behind it nearly carrying him fully around. He twisted, forcing the man to drop it less he wanted to hurt his wrists, and threw it to the ground before it could be grabbed again and used against him. In a battle of sheer physical strength, TC was on the losing end. But when it came to knowing how to fight, he had training and practice whereas his opponent simply had instinct and rage. It turned out, that could often times be enough.

And as they traded blows, trying to avoid being hit, he realized soon enough that this man did know something. Not any obvious moves, but he knew how to hurt.

By the time everything went to hell they were both already tiring rapidly. He could feel his sore ribs, pain on his jaw, stiffness in his back. His opponent had blood pumping from a broken nose, and TC had snapped the bones in his hand when he stopped a punch. Despise it all, the guy still struck with far greater strength than TC did. And at one point he got tired of striking and dodging, moving to a more finite method.

Instead of dodging or blocking TC's next punch he grabbed he sidestepped and grabbed his wrist. And twisted. Pain seared his wrist and he tried to pull away, but the grip was held and he felt a kick to his legs. He dropped to his knees, unable to keep his balance. The pressure on his wrist increased, and rippled down into his arm and shoulder. The only good thing was that the man's _other_ hand was broken so he wouldn't be able to punch him to death. Try as he might, he couldn't pull his arm free, and the man was content to hold his wrist in a painful position as he twisted his arm behind his back. He tried to get up, to spin back around to relieve the stress on his shoulder and maybe get free.

Only to get kicked yet again in the back of his leg, hard enough that his knee jerked painfully and he fell forward. This time it was accompanied by a loud _snap_ as his wrist, twisted and jolted by the motion, broke. He bit back a cry of pain, shoulders stiffening as he tried to ride out the shock.

He stilled, knowing any movement would break more than just his wrist.

He could hear the man gasping furiously behind him, trying to get his breath back, choking slightly on the blood still gushing from his nose. If he wasn't gritting his teeth from the pain he may have smirked.

"You put up a lot of fight for a doc."

TC knew what he had to do next, and while it was going to hurt a _lot_ , it was better than letting this guy do whatever he liked. He shot upwards, his sore knee barely taking his weight, and slammed his head back, as hard as he could. Right against the already broken nose. His shoulder popped out of place with a sickening pop, paired with the sensation of over-stretched muscles tearing. Then he was free, the man crying out in agony, releasing him, and he staggered away to get some distance as he tried to overcome the sensation rippling through his arm.

They both stared at one another, in anger and pain. Then his attacker surged forward, and TC found his knee threatening to give when he attempted to move out of the way. As a result he was tackled, colliding with something flat which shattered under his weight. The glass table - of course. A stabbing pain seared his back as a shard of glass dug into it, smaller sparks of pain shooting from various spots on his body. Without thinking, he grabbed hold of a sharp shard of glass with his working hand, and swung his arm straight up. Edges of glass dug into his hand, but more apparent was the sudden yell of pain and shock from his target. While his aim might not have been intentional, he saw the glass sticking out of the side of the man's neck. He wasn't sure if it was deep enough to have severed an artery, but it was enough for the guy to get up and back off, handing going to the glass immediately.

TC rolled sideways, using the side of the couch to haul himself to his feet. Pain prickled from his many injuries, and blood was oozing from the glass cuts. He had no sooner gotten to his feet when he was punched hard enough in the side of the head that he lurched sideways, vision turning dark, before he collapsed to the ground.

* * *

 **Topher POV**

He was worried. Officers had come to him, before he went home and mentioned that the man they had been following managed to disappear, and they had no idea where he had gone. On the cameras they had seen him sneak behind the desk and pull out the emergency contacts file. Fortunately he knew Drew, Jordan and Scott had gone out to eat after the shift. He also knew that TC had gone straight home, and not only had he gone home, but he wasn't answering any of his phone calls. He could just be sleeping, since he had been exhausted.

He pulled up at his house, not seeing anything out of the ordinary. But when he opened the door he found it unlocked, which was unusual for TC, unless he was awake.

But as he entered he saw the mess. Chairs overturned, table knocked over, objects wiped clean from the counter top. A pipe was on the floor, partially hidden under the bottom edge of the cabinets. Topher rushed forward, seeing a motionless body on the floor. The glass table had been shattered, and there was not one, but two people lying unconscious on the floor. He chose to ignore the person he recognized as the abusive husband from a patient earlier, and instead went to TC, who lay face down with a shard of bloodied glass sticking out of his back.

"Tee!" He called, but his friend didn't move or respond. He could see dried blood on the back of his head, and felt a bump on his head. But he was breathing. He glanced at the other unconscious man as he fished out his phone to dial 911. It only took a moment to realize the man wasn't breathing, and he saw the puddle of blood around his head.

He was dead.

* * *

 **TC POV**

He was awake for quite awhile before realizing he was no longer lying on the floor of his house. He blamed the dull throb in the back of his head, and the fuzzy sensation of what must be painkillers pumping through his veins. His body felt weak, muscles far too tired to function. His eyes didn't want to open, and it took quite a bit of work just to force them to. His vision was blurry, the light just a little too bright. He shifted weakly, a movement meant only to check for aches and pains.

There was a slight pain in his back, numbed by whatever was currently flowing through his IV. The pain from where the glass had been. Worse was his shoulder, pain burning all the way down to his hand. His arm was in a cast, and his wrist was also wrapped.

He was at least alive. He wondered if his attacker had fled after.

"How are you feeling?" He flinched at the voice, not having seen Topher who had been dozing quietly at the chair at his side. His friend looked exhausted, and he wondered what had happened between being knocked out and waking up here.

"Alright," he replied.

It was normal to feel some pain. He didn't want to be so hooked up on painkillers that he couldn't feel.

"What happened?" He asked. Topher looked as though the question made him uncomfortable.

"I found you unconscious on the floor. And the attacker..." Topher trailed off as if he didn't want to continue. TC felt tension rippling through him. What was wrong? "He's dead. He had a gaping wound on his throat, from what looked like a large shard of glass that he pulled out."

He felt suddenly cold. While he would not have batted an eye otherwise if the guy had died from a car accident or something else, it was a different story now. Because TC had - not quite intentionally, but still done - killed him. He hadn't aimed in any particular direction, just trying to cause damage to get him away. That didn't change the fact that a man was now dead, because of him, regardless of whether he deserved it.

"Are you alright?" Topher asked, his expression knowing.

TC nodded, not replying. Because it was a lie.

* * *

End chapter note: Yet again I just wanted to beat him up... and add a little emotional shock at the end. Somehow managed to get this finished despite everything trying to stop me! Happy Thanksgiving! Due to my shift tomorrow I probably won't have time to work on the next chapter (I will leave it a surprise for now). Expect the next chapter by Sunday, then!


	19. Appendicitis (OS)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift. I am also not a doctor or a medical professional. I'm taking pathophisiology though so does that count?

Note: From time to time things in our bodies just go wrong... and TC, being TC, tries to ignore it and an otherwise normal problem becomes a very serious one. I also NEED to get Kenny included on these stories because I've basically been using everyone except for him.

* * *

When he woke up for work it was with a dull pain in his stomach. That pain would sometimes throb sharply as it moved down closer to his hip, but it wasn't very severe. It was enough to make him wonder if he was coming down with a stomach bug, however, and he moved slowly as he got up. He didn't feel any worse for wear, passed it off as indigestion, and simply went in to work. The ER was as busy as it always was in the middle of the shift change, and he wasted no time getting into his scrubs and running forward to his first case of the night. And it was a nasty one, with a young boy who had been vomiting all day, unable to keep anything down. His skin was pale, nearly white, but he was also enveloped in sweat, hair plastered to his skin. A fever of 102. When TC entered the room, the kid was vomiting again, nothing but bile.

TC grimaced at the smell of sickness in the air before he quickly helped lean the boy back, cleaning away the mess. He started with something for the nausea, in hopes the kid would be able to actually get some rest. After seeing the dryness of his skin and the way it tented, he hooked up IV liquids. He suspected a kind of severe abdominal infection, and he moved on to tests.

He blamed the nausea he was starting to experience on the combination of the smell and the sight of bile, even though it wasn't something that was abnormal to him. Occasionally he passed his hand over his stomach, as if that hovering motion of his hand would somehow stem the mild aching or rid him of the nausea before it got worse. He wondered just what he had eaten that morning that had caused such indigestion - something he normally didn't have to deal with. An iron stomach, people would say. But it didn't take much for that to change, even in the span of a day.

Although the nausea and stomach pains continued for his shift they didn't reach a level that would send him home. He had no appetite, but forced himself to eat just a small amount of bland food, drinking small sips of water.

"You feeling alright?" Scott asked, having been - unknown to TC - watching him carefully over the past half hour, noting how frequently he moved his arm across his stomach and seemed to sip liquids slowly.

"Yeah. Just a stomach ache." Which wasn't a lie. It was also pretty convincing, since Scott nodded in acknowledgement before continuing on to his next surgery.

For the rest of his shift the pain and nausea persisted. He went home, convinced he must have caught a mild flu, and immediately went to sleep. He slept fitfully, waking to a dull throbbing in his stomach from time to time. By mid-afternoon the pain had gone from dull to sharp and powerful, the pain centered low in his stomach. He lay awake, unable to will himself back to sleep. He wanted nothing more than to simply curl up and fall back asleep, and hopefully wake up when it didn't hurt, but already the nausea, renewed into consciousness, was swirling. And this time it wasn't mild enough to warrant ignoring.

He staggered to his feet, feeling slow and uncomfortable. He pressed one hand against the soreness in his stomach, but it did nothing but worsen the pain. He could feel a bulge under the skin, which could really mean a lot of things, but none of them anything he wanted to deal with right now. He made it to the bathroom, knelt down beside the toilet, and waited.

A few minutes later, he vomited, and with it came the sharp pain in his lower stomach, clearly protesting the spasms. He wrapped an arm around his stomach, and bit back a groan of pain. The nausea subsided, but the pain did not. It carried on like a steady beat, a knife digging into his stomach, unabated by nothing. He winced, a knot of worry inside. As he forced himself to his feet he felt the stiffness in his lower back, a slight soreness in the muscles.

He rinsed out his mouth, heaving a sigh.

He was fairly sure what was going on now. The pain, the nausea, the vomiting. He felt a slight chill on his skin, and he was willing to bet if he checked his temperature, he would have a fever. All signs of appendicitis, especially given the area of the pain.

Something that couldn't be ignored - at least, not for long. But it could be put off. Ruptures had a tendency to occur later rather than earlier, and he had only been experiencing symptoms for a day. They would be short for the upcoming shift, with both Drew and Paul away at a training session at another hospital. There was no time for a surgery. He'd wait until the morning after, if he was able to hide his symptoms and push through long enough. He drank nothing, and ate nothing, fortunate to have no appetite anyway.

He simply rested, easing as much of his weight onto his left side in order to relieve any additional pressure, and dozed for small periods of time. His thoughts were tinged with pain and heat. When the alarm went off that would have woken him, had he been asleep, he felt as though he had not rested at all. He rubbed at his eyes, heavy and stinging with exhaustion, as he staggered back to his feet. He avoided coffee, because that would do nothing but worsen the pain when the pressure was added. While his stomach felt like an empty hole, it was simultaneously complaining with nausea and a hardness as if he was bloated. The thought of food to fill that void was completely off putting.

Splashing cold water on his face, he straightened up and tried to make himself look partially normal. If anything he could claim to be hungover from an early morning of drinking. It would take little effort to pretend to be in pain, even if the pain was in the wrong spot for a hangover.

He forced himself into work, and telling Molly he wasn't feeling well, managed to get the easiest patients for the day. No psych patients, no aggressive patients, and thankfully, no patients that he'd hurt himself trying to deal with. And with any luck, he'd make it through his entire shift without finding himself screaming in pain or puking up his guts. The day hadn't started out very well, and luck generally wasn't on his side.

By the middle of the shift, the air conditioning suddenly stopped working, which at least managed to cover up the beads of sweat on his forehead from the fever. Unfortunately it didn't quite explain his paleness, or the tension that was starting to be visible in his jaw. His stomach _hurt_. Pain was tearing its way through his side, sending shooting pains up through his back and even down into the back of his legs. He wanted nothing more than to lay down and even volunteer to cut it out himself, but he forced himself forward. Shaky, albeit, with a faint tremor in his hands and unease in his gut. Fortunately most of his patients were too concerned with themselves to notice, and the lack of doctors on duty that day left them spread too thin for him to come into contact with many of his coworkers.

He ended up in the bathroom around 2 in the morning, the queasiness having gotten the better of him after a particularly nasty infected wound that reeked. He stood at the sink, breathing hard to get his stomach back under control, not wanting to be sick. Eventually the sensation faded, perhaps aided by him having spammed the button on the soap dispenser so there was something less foul in the air. He was turning away to leave when his pager slipped free from its perch on the fold of his pocket and clattered to the floor. And he didn't think anything of bending over to retrieve it.

Not until pure _agony_ ripped through his side and he gasped out in pain, staggering forward onto his knees. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, teeth gritted together as the pain tore at him. His skin felt hot, the area feeling several sizes too large, as if swelling rapidly, even if there was no physical change in size.

He struggled to his feet, trying to leave the room, limping heavily as the pain seemed to radiate down his right side.

He leaned against the wall, trembling and holding himself up with both hands when the door swung open, and he flinched away so it didn't hit him. Standing in the opening was a very irritated looking Kenny. "You shouldn't be here if you're sick-" was what he started to say, before taking a double take at TC's trembling, pained form. "What the hell?" It was clear he must have heard from Molly that he wasn't feeling well and assumed he had gone to the restroom to throw up.

Now that the cat was out of the bag, so to say, he couldn't lie. "Appendix," he gasped out, wincing at the fresh wave of pain in his side. It felt as if the organ was trying to bust its way right out of his skin. He was fairly sure the motion to bend down had been the last straw needed for it to rupture.

"What are you doing here... never mind, I'll get someone," Kenny said in combined exasperation and concern before he turned out to get help. He breathed in and out shallowly, resting himself against the wall and not daring to make another movement. What a mistake this adventure had been, trying to work when he should in reality have already had it removed earlier that day. He tried to push the nauseating pain out from the front of his mind, the fine tremble increasing. Or was it shivering that had increased? His fever would likely only get worse from what it had been, especially if it got infected.

Kenny came back a moment later, an orderly in tow. "The good news is you won't have to wait long for surgery, once they do the ultrasound," Kenny said, his tone slightly sharp. "Of course you would have saved all this trouble if you had said something when it began to hurt."

TC chose not to respond, mostly because he had stepped forward and was trying hard not to fall flat in his face as the pain seared him. He would get chewed out later anyway by Jordan and Topher, probably more than once. Now that he thought of it, though, he'd probably never stop hearing about it, and that thought was almost worse than the pain currently blurring his vision. He lurched awkwardly forward, but the moments between standing and somehow lying on the gurney with his stomach nearly on fire was nothing more than a blur of pain and cursing. He wasn't even sure if he was the one doing the cursing.

The lights made him dizzy. He didn't have the energy to argue over the painkillers being injected into his veins, not when they would at least ease the searing pain that made him feel as if he was being torn apart. After a few minutes he became aware that it was more than just painkillers they had injected, when his blurry vision soon grew worse as his eyes drooped, and a calming sensation was the last thing he felt.

When he next opened his eyes it was to a different room and the pressure in his side was gone. He felt better all around, coldness gone from his skin, pain buried, and his side no longer swollen. It was, however, tightly wrapped with many sheets of gauze, some slightly pink, packed down where they had removed his appendix. The room smelled of disinfectant, burning his eyes and nose. His guess that his appendix has ruptured had probably been correct. He could only hazard a guess at the amount of antibiotics that were currently swirling through his veins in order to clean up the mess that had been left behind.

He was alone. In relative peace, at least for a little while. It was doomed to change at any time, but he allowed himself to relax, feeling at the bandages that wrapped his side. His skin felt slightly warm beneath his fingers, indication of the inflammation that likely took place. It would be sore for awhile, and he would be on antibiotics for many weeks. Part of which could have been avoided if he hadn't been so stubborn.

The peace was broken by the opening of the door, and he looked on warily as both Jordan and Topher entered, both of their looks hardening into a glare when they noticed he was conscious.

 _Aw hell,_ he thought.

* * *

End chapter note: Ended off a bit funny because we all know they're going to yell at him good! I would seriously picture him doing something like this in the show - showing up sick or badly injured and trying to hide it from his coworkers until it got really bad. Also, computer news: my laptop is being absolute trash and keeps shutting down randomly (now every day instead of every few months). I got it checked and the motherboard is cracked. I ordered a replacement that should hopefully be here by next weekend. If I vanish it's because it died before then and I am not quite willing to try and type up a full story on my tablet's touchscreen (ugh!). Next story? Haven't decided which idea yet, but I'll post by Wednesday. (Except updates extra 3 days apart from the time being because of holiday business).


	20. Dropped (OS)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift. I am also not a doctor or a medical professional. I'm taking pathophisiology though so does that count?

Note: "Don't Fall". Inevitably, someone will fall. And it wont be very pretty. In fact, there will personally be a cringe factor (for me) but maybe not for others! Enjoy!

* * *

The metal ladder shook slightly as the wind blew, and he braced himself against the side of the bridge. Above, the car dangling over the guard rail was growing closer, and he had only a few more feet up to climb. The ground was dangerously far below him, traffic in one lane cut off by emergency vehicles. The other lane continued to fly by as if nothing was happening, not even slowing for a moment. It must be frightening to be one of the people down below, so close to vehicles traveling over 70 on the freeway, in which one tilt of the wheel could kill them. He had learned over the course of many tragic scenes while trying to reach an injured or trapped patient, that people on the freeway cared not for anyone else on the road.

He climbed up more, until he was nearly at eye level with the bumper of the car. Inside he could see the child, saved from falling fifty feet below by her seat belt. Her eyes were wide with fright. She was too far down for anyone to reach from above, and they risked the car hurtling the rest of the way over the edge if any more weight was added to the vehicle. Which is why he had volunteered to get to her from below and lift her to them.

He had just enough wiggle room on his ladder to reach her.

"Hey. My name is TC. I'm going to get you out of here, okay?" He asked. The shell-shocked child merely nodded, staring between him and the far drop below. Her mother had escaped but the car had shifted further down - too far down to get to safely - before she could pull out her daughter. He could hear her frightened exclamations from the top of the overpass.

He looked up at the rescuer that was lowering themselves with a rope, far enough not to jostle the car. He couldn't quite get to the top of the bridge from the ladder, so they needed to meet right before. He turned his attention back to the girl, knowing everyone was ready for this to proceed and hopefully, it would all go well. If it didn't, there wouldn't be much time for him to think. If the car wrenched its way from its hardly stable hold it would pitch forward, take him out, and smash into the ground all the way below. Hopefully giving the people below enough time to get out of the way. He wasn't planning on being crushed by a car today, however.

"You need to be brave," he knew people never really looked on too hopefully following that statement. "You will need to release your seat belt. I will catch you, don't worry. And I'll pull out this window, and hand you up above where you mother is waiting."

Her response could be one of two things: panicked freaking out and denial, or simple acceptance in the face of desperation. He sincerely hoped for the latter.

While she looked positively terrified at the prospect, she still nodded. He braced himself against the ladder, so her weight didn't sent him flying off the rungs. She reached down with one hand for the buckle, while the other gripped at the seat belt so hard he could see her fingers turning white. It seemed that the seconds passed by impossibly slow, and then she fell forward, still grabbing at the belt. She twisted as she fell, and even as he caught her he heard her cry of pain when her arm got wrenched.

Worried that the pull would unbalance the car he quickly untangled the limb before passing her to the rescuer up above. The car stayed put, even though it seemed to tremble ominously at the verge of the bridge. Once handed off, he began to climb down, one eye on the car above. He wasn't actually sure what he would do if it fell. It wasn't as though there was any place to move to.

It turned out he should have been watching below. One of the cars flying in the other lane lost control, managing to swing sideways into the throng of rescue vehicles, clipping the ladder. The ladder which, being immensely high, was not really stable enough to stand such a hit. He hadn't really been aware of the collision down below, only hearing the sound of screeching and shouting and glass shattering. Then his ladder began to pitch back as if the bottom had been swept out beneath him, and he somehow managed to pitch over the side rather than fall straight back with it. He was still 20 feet in the air, and he grabbed onto something - anything at all - to try and slow the fall.

Instead all he managed to grab was the rope dangling from the ladder, ripping a burn into the palms of his hands before it was wrenched from his grasp. He fell fast after that, trying to fall in such a way that he wouldn't land on his head.

He would land feet-first, or at least, try to.

He crashed into the ground like a brick. He hit harder on his right than his left, unbalanced during the fall. He let his legs buckle instantly to try and not break every bone from his hip down, using the momentum to force himself to roll rather than to let it shatter his entire body. He halted, energy spent, somehow still alive despite landing on hard tar. His head rang, but his vision was clear and he felt hyper-aware of everything going around, people running to and fro, trying to pull the injured driver from the car - checking the pulse of one of the rescue workers that had been hit but who was, quite clearly, dead.

And then pain broke the relatively peaceful barrier and he gasped in a sharp breath and curled around his right leg. _It hurt._ The pain worst of the pain rippled from just above his knee to mid-thigh, with slightly less, but still significant, pain pulsing from his foot to his hip. Enough pain that he wouldn't be surprised if he had shattered every bone, although the logical part of his brain would argue that it was simply not possible. The landing was bad, but not _that_ bad.

Or was it?

There was an annoying sound in his head that he ignored in favor of trying not to scream himself hoarse in pain. All at once he was cold, but sweat prickled his skin. His stomach churned, his head pounded, and he was breathing harshly with each breath. He was only partially aware of pain in other areas of his body, but it was all drowned out with what was currently pulsing through his leg.

Sound seemed come rushing in as if a switch had been turned on. Drew - who had been waiting at the bottom of the ladder - was trying to talk to him, to get him to at least move slightly so he could check him for injuries. The words had taken on a note of desperation, but he couldn't bring himself to respond or even move at all. Spots were beginning to flood his vision, and the normal noise of voices was replied by ringing and the rush of his heart racing. For a brief moment he felt pressure on his arm, but didn't react to that either. It wasn't until the pain mysteriously began to fade, bringing with it a wave of darkness that he tried to speak.

His eyes slammed shut before he could make a word.

* * *

 **Drew POV**

His only warning of danger was the squeal of tires. He lurched to the side, ducking behind an emergency car as the vehicle blasted through the scene. He watched in amazement as the car skidded to a halt, the driver motionless inside. How could someone be so oblivious to the multiple flashing lights and emergency tape, as well as parked vehicles, that they were passing by an accident? Only now, after the car crashed through, were the oncoming vehicles in the other lane finally slowing down as they came passed, but it wasn't out of concern for safety or realizing there were dangerous driving conditions. Oh no. It was because they wanted to see what was going on.

A moment later a shape came crashing down a few feet from him and he jumped back in surprise. The ladder slammed down on the top of a truck, setting off the alarm. His gaze focused on the body that had rolled to a stop and was silently clutching at his leg in agony. He realized the motion must have thrown the ladder right over, sending him falling from... how high?

Did it matter now?

His instincts kicked in and he rushed over, dropping down beside TC who was writhing on the ground, seemingly oblivious to all around him. His teeth were gritted tightly, eyes glazed, and didn't seem to hear anything Drew was saying. He turned to look at the rescue workers who were trying to get control of the scene again, checking on the driver, checking on the injured who had been struck. "We need an ambulance!" Or several.

He could see blood on TC's pant leg but he didn't see any jutting bone sticking out through it - but that didn't mean there wasn't any. A moment later he realized the blood was coming from his hands, which were streaked with what looked like a powerful burn directly down the middle of his palms. He wasn't even sure how he had gotten them, until he saw the small yellow rope lying across the fallen ladder, used to help raise or lower the height of the extension. Realization that he must have grabbed at that while falling, ripping deeply into his hands, made him wince. Rope burn wasn't anything fun.

But really, that was the least of his worries.

The lack of response, and lack of any kind of physical reaction to anything, meant he was in some serious pain. He went with the best thing he could find for pain, which was basically double-purposed as a sedative. The effect was near instantaneous. The tension seemed to deteriorate, and for a brief moment he saw a flash of alertness in TC's eyes before they closed.

Drew sighed in relief as the ambulance pulled up. It had likely been nearby to begin with just in case - subsequent accidents at accident scenes were pretty common when the entire roadway wasn't closed off. With the help of the medics he rolled TC onto his back, surprised that he didn't see any head injuries, which he would have expected after a fall like that. But it would seem, he was not without injury. He managed to squeeze his way onto the ambulance with the explanation that he was a doctor.

The leg looked horrific. No bone burst through the skin, at least, but there was obvious bruising and distortion along the bone all the way from his ankle to his upper thigh. Enough damage to be visible even from the skin, with the bone dangerously pressing against it, in the midpoint of his femur.

Drew sighed to himself. Without a scan to determine where the breaks were and what was needed to fix them, they couldn't do much other than control pain and ensure the blood still flowed. The reality was that he was lucky to have even survived a fall of that height. Most likely he had purposely fallen in such a way that he would _hurt_ something non-vital rather than breaking his neck or landing with more momentum on back. He could have broken his spine.

* * *

 **TC POV**

The world spun when he woke. The telltale sign of an overpowering load of painkillers. Even then he could feel the numbness in his leg from a local, rather than just a quaint lack of awareness of the pain. The fact that the numbness spread across his entire leg, and even his foot included, told him he had managed to spread the impact across the entire limb while trying to isolate it to one specific region. It was not ideal, but was still better than being dead. Although he had no trouble remembering what had happened to lead him here, he could scarcely visualize where he was. The hospital, no doubt, but the room spun out of focus every time he opened his eyes.

It made his stomach churn.

He raised a hand to his head, only realizing something was strange when he felt the fabric. His hand was wrapped in gauze, and he vaguely thought of the moment he gripped the rope and it ripped out of his hands. And seemingly took a lot of skin with it. His hands didn't hurt at all, but he was sure they would later.

He dropped his arm, and closed his eyes again.

It was simply too overwhelming to let the world spin in and out of focus, ceiling lights practically swimming before his vision. Movement would be completely impractical. It would be a long time before he'd even want to put weight on his leg. Even the painkiller he was currently on would likely not be able to do much more than take off the sharpest edge of what his leg felt like. He felt himself relaxing, still eased by sedatives, when he felt a hand brush his forehead and he flinched violently.

His eyes opened to a hazy, hard to focus on Jordan, who had taken a step back in case he wasn't quite in his right mind and would lash out. He had done that many times before, somehow managing not to have harmed her.

"Are you alright?" She asked gently.

"Yeah. Just a little dizzy. Didn't hear you come in," he said. "How's the kid?"

Jordan nodded with understanding. "She's fine. Just some sprains and bruises." _Better than you_ were the ironic, yet unspoken words.

"Good," he replied, closing his eyes again as the dizziness began to make him queasy. The current blend of drugs may simply not be ideal, but he was sure it would be better than what it could be without them. It wouldn't be long before he would be forced to get up and walk to make sure his leg healed properly without setting wrong. He wouldn't want to be unable to bend his leg.

"You need to rest," Jordan spoke even more quietly than she had before. She stayed at his side rather than leaving, and he decided to allow himself to sleep.

* * *

End chapter note: So why was the only dialogue in this entire story at the end? Because for some reason I couldn't bring myself to write any during the other parts. Ahem. Anyway, the thought of breaking my femur (and other leg bones) for some reason makes me realllyy squeamish. I don't have similar feelings for any other bones which is weird! Anyway... up next - I will be doing a slight AU of Syria in which they hear about the bombing on the news, a few people go to try and find their friends and the actual events in Syria don't go so smoothly. Also, I like your idea for the stalker episode! That episode could definitely do with some tweaking!


	21. Off the Rails (RW)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift. I am also not a doctor or a medical professional. I'm taking pathophisiology though so does that count?

Note: The first part of season 4 contains so much ridiculous good luck and 'that's not how injuries work' that I wrote an entire story on it. I am now going to do a bit of a rewrite, unrelated. The season 3 finale has the missile strike in the Syrian camp. For some reason in S4 none of the at home characters have any clue what is going on or little care in the world. So I'm doing a rewrite where they are aware and send help and TC isn't quite so lucky. Since he was extremely rash and quick to react he will be the same in this fic!

* * *

His head pounded as he was thrown to the hard dusty floor, hands bound once again in front of him with zip ties. Zip ties, of all things - where did they get them all? They bit into his wrists, even as he carefully avoided pulling at them. Annoying to deal with, but fortunately, easy to slip out of - with the appropriate tools. He briefly noticed Syd tied to a chair, looking surprisingly well compared to the last he had seen her. When the door slammed shut he forced himself into action, despite the aches and pains in the majority of his body. He was stiff and sore, ribs bruised, hand bleeding steadily once more. But he needed to act quickly, in hopes that his 'kidnapper' turned patient would hold up his end of the bargain.

He sliced through the ties with the knife he had stowed in his pocket, quickly getting to his feet and going to Syd.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Were the first words that came out. It wasn't too far different than the last words he had heard - _I hope we never work together again_ , or something like that. He knew she had likely been hoping he had managed to escape or get away, rather than getting himself caught in order to save her. But he would be lying if he didn't see that nearly hidden look of hope in her eyes, not that he would bring it up.

"Getting us out of here," he replied, not bothering with pleasantries as he cut the ties around her wrists. Outside he could hear some yelling in another language, and he waited tensely for the shooting to begin. But it didn't. The yelling ceased, and he could hear footsteps outside the door.

Something told him that he had been betrayed. Was it really betrayal when the alliance was practically forced by survival?

"You might want to sit back down," he said a little hastily. She obliged, probably because his tone suggested things were not going to go well, and it would probably look better if he hadn't just 'released' their prisoner.

He backed away as the door opened and several men flooded in. He didn't see the guy he had helped to save, but he didn't need to since their murderous expressions were enough. He stepped back, faking submission, but his blood was boiling and he felt himself automatically tensing for a fight. He doubted playing along would do anything to curb their mood and he'd rather try and fight his way out. Most of their guns were not drawn, pointed down other than the few who stayed near the door. One of them barked what was likely an order at him in a language he didn't understand, and he simply stood still and tilted his head in the universal gesture of _what?_

The rebel barked another order before stepping closer, well within striking distance. TC wasted no time in decking the man in the head, with enough force behind the punch to knock him to the ground. He moved forward so that many of the rebels were between him and those with their guns drawn, and as suspected, no bullets started to fly.

Instead, those closest rushed at him. Perhaps if he had been in top condition of health he may have had a better chance - or maybe not, he was still hopelessly outnumbered. He only prayed that Syd would not involve herself, so they would have no reason to turn to her. He was sure they would be much more offended should a woman try to fight them with a man, and he had no idea what they would do. It was a different world out here.

It was also unhelpful to his situation that they had long rifles to strike him with. While he tried to stay up as long as he could, taking down another man with two strikes to his chest, tripping another as he kicked his feet out from beneath him, there was no winning this fight. The metal end of a rifle slammed into his chest, knocking the breath out of him and making his already sore ribs throb with fresh pain. He blocked a strike to his head with an arm, hearing a loud crack that brought forth a fresh flare of pain. It was only adrenaline that kept him going, but he was hurled backwards by a shove, and heard the sound of a bullet.

He staggered another step, hitting the wall behind him, before he felt himself sliding to the ground. Heat speared his shoulder as his mind gradually caught up to the realization that he had been shot.

Blood trickled down his shoulder, leaving a hot, itchy trail as it soaked his sleeve. He was aware of more yelling, most of it inaudible because he was in shock, or they were all yelling in another language, or maybe all at once and nothing could be understood. He was aware that Syd was also yelling but felt an immensely strong pang of relief that she had the sense _not_ to move, although he was sure the act of doing nothing was probably eating away at her. It would do the same to him - the only difference being he wouldn't be able to stop himself.

Someone grabbed him by his collar, dragging him forward. He lashed out with his good arm, clocking the guy across the face. He was dropped and fell flat on his back, too dizzy to force himself upright.

Yet again the butt end of a rifle slammed into his chest, but this time it slammed directly into his ribs, the already bruised ribs, with more force than the bones could take. There was a piercing, agonizing pain accompanying a loud crack. The crack and his subsequent gasp of pain was nearly overwhelmed by the yelling, the sounds of many men arguing among themselves. He curled around his broken ribs, to protect them from any subsequent hits less the broken bone be driven into his lung. He felt another strike in his side, behind the ribs. A third bounced off the side of his leg, almost harmlessly other than leaving a dull throb. His arms were trapped and there was a searing pain in his shot arm as they tugged his arms forward. A new zip tie was around his wrists, this one even tighter than the last, digging at his skin. Just to be cruel, really. His body didn't quite have the strength left in it to attempt another escape.

He had failed.

There was one final kick to his side followed by the murmurs of many men before they stormed out of the room in clear irritation. He would have taken a small bit of satisfaction that they had to pick up two of their own off the floor if his ribs and shoulder didn't hurt so much. It took until they closed and locked the door behind them, trapping them inside the room, for him to realize he had been holding his breath. And it was only because of Syd's warning to him that he wasn't breathing that he forced himself to breath in.

Breathing felt like fire across his chest, but the air passed without difficulty, and he couldn't taste any blood in his mouth so he was sure things were okay.

"Fuck. What did you do that for you idiot?" Syd hissed, dropping the guise that she was bound to get up, kneel beside him, and put pressure on his shoulder. He flinched in pain, gritting his teeth at the ache. At least it was just his shoulder and not his chest or his head.

"They would have..." He broke off to a slightly undignified yelp of pain as she pressed harder, the blood still oozing sluggishly beneath her hands. "Done it anyway," he finished, breathing hard. And he wished he wasn't breathing hard, because his chest felt as though it was being shattered by the pain in his ribs, and he was sure if he kept breathing like that he would eventually puncture a lung.

"Was this your big plan on getting us out of here?" She said icily, clearly displaying her concern with the facade of annoyance.

"Not exactly," he replied with a sigh. "I saved a guy who took me hostage and was relying on him to help us." To be fair, it wasn't his best plan. In fact, it had been a pretty terrible plan to start with, and he could see the truth of that reflected on her face.

"And now you're stuck here with a bullet in your shoulder," she replied, and then pressed lightly on the ribs he had been guarding, which made him try to jerk away which did nothing more than smack his head against he floor. "And a few broken ribs. You should have escaped while you could," she said the last part far more gently, a little bit of her annoyance softening with understanding.

"I don't leave people behind," he replied stubbornly.

"You'll just die with me."

* * *

 **Drew POV**

He hadn't been able to sleep. Not the night before, not during the plane ride, and not during the ride to the site. Ever since they had seen the bombing on the news back at the hospital, his thoughts had been filled with images of dead bodies. The people who had combed through the wreckage had not found TC or Syd - but they also had not found their bodies, either. There was hope, but given the state of the country they were in, he wasn't sure how much hope there could be. He couldn't help but imagine they would be finding their bodies in some ditch or other. Even if they had gotten away, they wouldn't have gotten far in an area predominantly controlled by rebels.

Beside him, Topher looked just as tired, eyes drooping, round circle beneath. He couldn't stop grabbing on to things - the seatbelt, the side of the jeep, anything. A sign of stress. They had both boarded the plane after they saw what had happened in hopes they would be able to find their friends.

They were being escorted by soldiers, granted for this one mission. They would at least try. There were reports on rebel strongholds and prisons across the desert, but they were many, and it would take a long time to comb through all of them. They had decided to start their search close by the ruined refuge site, until someone came forward. A woman, working with a rescue group, named Amira.

She had told them they had pulled TC out of the rubble of a small target city, who then saved a rebel, and was going off in an effort to find Syd, who at this point still remained missing.

It was just idiotic enough for him to know it was definitely TC.

They had pulled up outside what looked like a military barracks, except it was the wrong colour and it was being guarded by a few well-armed but bored looking men. The regalia was apparently the same as that the rebels wore, and he and Topher had to wait back as small bursts of gunfire was exchanged. The barracks were swept, only to find a few sick children being held. They were brought back to a refuge site that was close to the base for treatment.

They ran into a few more such buildings, sometimes finding people, sometimes finding corpses. By the end of the day, they hand't found TC or Syd.

* * *

 **TC POV**

The day passed. Then night. He dozed at a few points, but pain kept him awake. By the time the next morning came around he was feeling much worse for wear than he had been before. Aside from dehydration - none of the guards had gone back in again to give water - he felt cold. And if he knew anything about the region, feeling cold was not a good thing. It was hot here, with the sun baking the landscape. The pounding in his head had increased, and he was queasy. He shivered weakly as nausea rolled. The bleeding had barely been stopped, due to the lack of anything to stop it with, and he found himself pressed into the corner of the wall, leaning against it and trying not to shiver.

He knew he had a fever. And he knew most of it was brought on by having not taken care of himself well and having multiple broken wounds. They were infected. Antibiotics wouldn't be an easy thing to come by out here, and he knew it would only get worse.

His broken ribs were almost more painful than the rest of his body. Fortunately he was still able to breath normally, which meant he hadn't punctured a lung after all, but it was definitely getting hard. Each movement of his chest sent pain searing his side, a pain he couldn't ignore or prevent. It wasn't as if he could _stop_ breathing. And so he accepted that he was simply going to be miserable, one arm wrapped around his chest while the other hung limply at his side.

Syd slept at his side, and he made no move to wake her. He was exhausted, shivering with sweaty banks stuck to his forehead.

This had been an awful idea.

* * *

 **Topher POV**

They had come across more hideouts and hostages than they could count. He was rapidly losing hope of finding them in the near future, and had gone off to the northern desert to try and see if they went in that direction. They did come across another barracks-looking building, but this one was slightly different. For one, there was a guard already lying dead on the ground and the rest were shifting anxiously. They opened fire as soon as the jeep came into view, and despite the bullet-proof siding and glass they both ducked.

It took only minutes for the gunfire to end. Yet again - it had become uncountable now - they left to sweep the inside and check for injured people. It seemed many of these places held injured, sick refuges from the camp, and he couldn't quite understand _why_.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark mustiness inside.

"Drew?" He heard a female voice.

And then he saw Syd, and curled into a pitiful-looking ball, TC. Topher's eyes quickly took in the paleness, aside from the slight flush in his cheeks. The blood on his shoulder that had soaked halfway down his arm. He was shivering even in the heat, but sweat made his hair and clothes damp, and his eyes were closed. He was too far to hear, but he could see him mumbling to himself, eyes closed, unaware of anything around him.

Shit.

Syd looked stressed, frustrated, and her hair was dark with dried blood. But she looked relatively okay, and Topher moved past her to check on his friend, who was undoubtedly suffering a fever.

"He's had the fever since this morning. Bullet wound to his right shoulder, three broken ribs," Syd reported for him. Her voice was hoarse.

Topher nodded, pressing his hand on TC's forehead. The skin was clammy and heat pulsed from him. His eyes opened, looking at - or rather, through - Topher, glazed over with confusion. "Thad?"

Topher's heart plummeted. It wasn't good if he was fever-hallucinating his dead brother. And if he was seeing that, what else was he seeing? He shared a pointed glance with Drew and Syd. "Let's go," he said quietly. The severity of his fever was enough that antibiotics and fever reduces would be needed sooner than later. "I'm going to help you up, okay?" He said to TC, unsure if his friend would even hear him.

As expected, TC did not respond to him, but he also didn't move to stop him as he began to pull him up, carefully avoiding his ribs and shoulder.

"My fault," TC mumbled, sagging against Topher. Drew helped him to steady him. "My fault you died."

Drew froze, but Topher managed to get TC's good arm wrapped around his shoulders moments before his friend passed out. It couldn't have had better timing. Trying to drag a conscious, delirious TC out would have been quite problematic. He could practically feel Drew's eyes boring into him, a question in them. But Topher didn't make an effort to explain what TC meant. It wasn't his story to tell. As far as he knew, he had only told him and Jordan about what had happened leading up to Thad's death.

* * *

 **TC POV**

He was warm. Not hot, like he should be. And not cold anymore. His head didn't pound, his ribs barely hurt. His arm was still numb with pains only in the shoulder. His memory felt spotty. He could hear the _whoosh_ of an engine. Occasionally he could feel something shaking. He was sitting up rather than lying down, which he found quite strange. He was obviously on a plane. Which meant they had been rescued, but he couldn't recall the rescue. Or even who had done it.

He opened his eyes, immediately confused. Topher was there. And Drew. Syd was asleep, with gauze wrapped around her head. They both looked tired, clearly having been awake for a long time.

He turned his head more to see an IV in his arm, attached to a few bags.

"Staying awake this time?"

Drew had noticed him awake, and he turned his head back towards his friends. It had been a few weeks since he had seen them, but it really felt like it had been much longer. They looked no different than before, but he was sure he didn't look anything like he had. Or maybe he did. He had left after that bar fight, after all, and his head was just as sore and bruised now as it had been. Well, maybe worse.

"I think so." He didn't remember having woken up before. He must have been really out of it.

"You're a hard person to track down," Topher said, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. TC would have shrugged, if his shoulder didn't hurt.

"She said you were planning on staying," Drew said. So they wouldn't going to bring up what had happened - at least, not yet. Maybe it would be better to wait anyway.

"Yeah," he replied. "I wasn't ready to leave."

"And now?" Topher's words were calm but he could see him tensing slightly.

"I think I've had enough," TC replied honestly.

"Good. Because we're headed home."

* * *

End chapter note: There we are. Truthfully there could be tons of ways to go about those episodes. All of them whumpy. Just some news: unsurprisingly, my laptop _did_ die. On Thursday, actually. I dug up my old laptop which shockingly still works even after having not been turned on for 3 years. It'd old and slow but does the job and will work for writing these chapters while I wait for the new one to come in. Hopefully I'll get it next week, or the week after. As for updates: I'm updating every 3 days. I live in the Eastern US, so I'm GMT-5. I update on the day rather than at a set time during the day, so it could be morning, afternoon, evening... so given your time zone there should be an update the morning you get up on the 4th day, if not before you go to bed. Like the stalker episode ideas!


	22. Stalker (RW)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift. I am also not a doctor or a medical professional. I'm taking pathophisiology though so does that count?

Note: I kind of wished in the stalker plot that TC had been involved somehow. I would picture him trying to go after the guy if he could. But I could also picture the guy targeting people Jordan loves. And so I decided with the latter idea, since I'd expect more whump out of it.

* * *

Jordan had been acting strange all day. Nervous, secretive, irritable. He wasn't quite sure what it was and she seemed uninterested in telling him. He had wanted to try and follow her and at least get an "I'm Okay" from her but she had vanished with another patient. It was probably just stress, he supposed. Things were happening rather fast and with the pregnancy there was no doubt hormones that would make the regular stress of the job seem so much worse. As a result he decided not to tell her about Annie showing up and he had no interest in visiting his sister in law. She was notorious for causing nothing but problems.

He was driving home, prepared to invite Jordan over later so they could take and he could maybe help her out, when he came across a car pulled over at the edge of the road. Someone was lying on the ground next to the open door, motionless. And he couldn't just leave.

He pulled his bike over, running out to check on the man. "Are you alright?" Probably a stupid question, considering the guy seemed unconscious but it was always good to ask. Just in case. There was no response, but as he knelt beside the large, seemingly unconscious man, he couldn't see any obvious injuries. No bleeding from the head, no awkward positioning of bones. No sign on his car of an accident. He was just lying there. And then his eyes shot open, and there was a look in them that told TC to get the hell back. Or try to. But when he lurched to his feet to get away from the guy, his leg shot out, swiping his legs out from beneath him. He crashed down onto the tar on his back, relieved at least that no cars were coming that could potentially run him over.

He began to roll to get up, wondering if this was one of those more clever, more aggressive 'robbery' ideas. He had heard of them on the news in other countries but had never suspected to see it himself. But if it was a robbery why wasn't the guy demanding anything.

A large hand grasped his ankle, and he kicked with his free leg as he rolled to his knees, trying to get free. Instead of letting go, a heavy weight slammed down on his legs and he, for the second time, smashed down on the tar. He slammed his elbow back into flesh, only to get his arm grabbed and twisted painfully. He felt fingers digging into his scalp as he was grabbed none-too-gently by the back of his head - his hair - and his neck was pulled back. There was pain and he struggled to pull free, but didn't quite have the strength to break free of whoever had him.

A fist rammed his side, and he winced in pain. He slammed his head back into whoever was pinning him, hearing a grunt of pain and a sudden loss of pressure on his head. He writhed, twisting around, to land a punch on the guy.

A moment later he was free, as the guy staggered to his feet with a furious yell.

TC rolled, ignoring the many pains across his body, and jumped to his feet. For a brief moment he struggled to decide whether to fight or flee, as the man bared his teeth at him in a mock snarl. He wouldn't be able to turn his bike on in time to get away. He wasn't even sure he'd be able to outrun the guy - sure, for a little bit. But he looked strong, fit, and strangely motivated. He was exhausted from work.

Better to fight, anyway. And find out what the hell this guy wanted.

The man lunged, and he moved to the side, striking him hard against the neck as he passed. The man seemed to absorb the blow as if it were nothing, probably due to the fact he was built like a bull, heavily muscled nearly from head to toe. Almost a body-builder level of muscle, except it was clear to him that this was clearly his natural form.

He narrowly dodged a powerful blow to his head, feeling the slight hint of wind from the force of it. He grabbed at the outstretched arm, twisting, trying to break the limb at the elbow.

He was punched in the jaw for his trouble, hard enough that he staggered back, losing his grip. He could taste blood in his mouth but wasn't sure if it was because hit bit his cheek or if the hit had been enough to shift teeth and made his gums bleed. Wincing at the slight blurriness that entered his vision he tried to jump out of the way of another punch, but he didn't see the car near him, managing to move sideways right into it.

He didn't quite avoid the hit, which met his head right before his ear, sending pulsing pain through his skull.

He blocked several body hits with his arms, ignoring a new, shooting pain up his wrist when one struck a little too close to bone. And then the guy practically tackled him, sending him pitching backward hard enough that his head crashed into the window. Somehow the glass held, even though he was sure his head would break right through and he'd get a massive shard of glass shoved up into the back of his skull. The man grabbed a handful of his shirt, and hurled him to the ground. For the third time he found himself crashing into the pavement, and it was really getting old.

The pounding in his head was far more debilitating now, and it seemed to make his movements slower and sluggish. He stood in time to get punched in the jaw, in the same spot as before, and he dropped like a rock. Pain seared through his jaw, and he could feel blood dripping from his mouth. He experimentally opened and closed it, relieved to find that it wasn't broken.

Stubbornly he tried to stand again, but barely made it partway up before he was kicked in the stomach, knocking him sideways. He coughed, winded, but still fueled by rage.

The kicks kept coming, and he struggled, trying to crawl away. Pain was pulsing his stomach and he felt the overwhelming urge to throw up, but somehow managed not to. At some point he felt an awful sensation in his stomach after a particularly brutal hit, but it seemed to be lost in the blur of searing pains that were currently overwhelming his senses. The kicking stopped, and he managed to breath while cautiously shifting.

"Once I find that bitch of yours I'll do the same to her." They were the only words the man had said at all.

It took a brief moment for him to process what he said, to feel the surge of violent fury that buried the pain. It had been personal after all, and wasn't simple a random attack. But he couldn't quite recall who he had pissed off recently, and he especially couldn't think of anyone Jordan may have angered either. He was almost surprised at how quickly he launched himself to his feet, but had no time to see the reaction of his attacker.

The last hit to his head was fast and strong. Red filled his vision were a moment all too fast, followed by a brief sensation of pain. The ground surged close, and then faded into black.

When he came to, he was face down in the grass. His head felt as though it had been busted open, dried blood stuck to his face. He tried to list his head, wincing at the pain it caused. He tried to look around, finding himself lying in the ditch at the edge of the road. His bike lay tipped over in the grass nearby. There was no truck. There was also no cars going by, and he silently cursed himself for picking one of the least busy back-roads possible to avoid traffic on his way home. It was a habit of his, and he might just decide not to do it anymore.

He needed to get up, call for help. Call Jordan. He felt a rush of fear. What if the guy had gone after her already, like he promised. TC reached into his pocket, wincing in pain as the movement sent shooting pains up and down his body. Surprisingly his phone was not only still there, but it hadn't been damaged in the fight.

He had over 14 missed calls, most of them from Jordan.

He rolled onto his back, crying out at the pain it caused. His stomach felt as though it had been bludgeoned in by a sledgehammer. He rested one arm against it, grimacing as he tasted blood in his mouth. He wiped his lip with one sleeve, noting the dark black blood. Great. He hoped it wasn't an important organ that was bleeding. Although he was sure if it was he'd be much worse off already.

Jordan picked up immediately. That was a relief.

She also sounded pissed. Or worried. He couldn't quite tell over the phone, because either way she was yelling at him.

"Where the hell have you been?" If he listened closely he was sure she sounded more panicked than angry, but his head was pounding hard and he couldn't quite focus on more than one thing at a time.

"Sleeping," he said. It wasn't quite a lie. He also failed to stifle the groan of pain that came from actually moving his jaw, and he was sure she had heard it. He winced, bringing up his other arm to gently press at the side of his mouth, only for that to hurt just as bad.

"Tee, are you okay?" Her words took on a sharper edge. He winced slightly at the volume of his phone so close to his pounding head.

"Been... better," he tried to talk in a way that moved his jaw as little as possible. It barely helped, and he felt more blood trickle down the side of his mouth. "You?" He wanted to explain why he was asking so she wouldn't think he was being idiotic, but he couldn't quite more his mouth so much to form the words, and he suddenly wanted to just lie there and be quiet.

"What? I'm fine... I'm still at the hospital. Where are you?" He could hear voices in the background, or, he thought he could.

It took him a moment to try and remember the name of the road he was on. "Rose Park Road... past the bridge," he mumbled around the blood. She'd ridden home with him before, so she'd know where it was. But the thought of her going out to find her with who knows what kind of maniac wanting to hurt her was enough to get him talking some more. "Stay there.. he said he was going to go after you." The pain was excruciating as he tried to force out that full sentence. He wished he had something to ease the ache on his face. Even his teeth ached, pain pulsing through them.

"He..." She broke off on whatever she had been thinking of saying. "There's an ambulance on its way... okay?"

She asked okay as if hoping he would decline and say he wouldn't need one, like he often would. But even he knew better than that, as more dark blood dripping sloppily down his lips.

"Okay," His hand was shaking just from the effort of holding his phone close to his ear. He let it drop, turning his head to be at the most appropriate angle to still hear. He wasn't sure if he was going to be sick or not, as he felt queasiness warring with the pain, and a bubbling sensation in his throat. Part of him just wanted to fall asleep, and wake up when his head felt better. But he was fairly sure it would never feel better.

She was silent. He could feel concern seeping through the phone.

He didn't remember dropping his phone and falling unconscious. He didn't even wake up to the sirens of the ambulance, or the sound of Topher yelling at him when he wouldn't wake up. In fact, he didn't wake up at all until he was jabbed rather unceremoniously in the arm in the form of a medic trying to find a vein at the same second the ambulance struck a bump. Unfortunately awareness didn't wake up at the same time and all he knew was that there were people around him and he was in pain, and someone had just made him feel more pain.

He lashed out, striking someone hard enough to hear a yelp. That action resulted in a weight across his chest, pinning his arms down. "Tee, calm down. We're just trying to help!" It was Topher's voice.

He tried to reply but the pain left him only able to make a strangled groan. He could taste the blood, feel it on his lips.

"Just calm down. You'll be fine."

He blacked out again. That, or he was sedated so he didn't punch another guy in the face. When he woke he was in the hospital, back here he started. He was first aware of the heavy wrapping around his head. It was keeping his jaw in place, tight enough that he would have to make an effort to open it. Most likely there was a fracture in his jaw, mild enough not to require wiring but enough to need support.

The second thing he noticed was the pain still pulsing in his stomach. Fortunate the nausea was gone but his stomach felt strange.

He saw Jordan next. Her eyes seemed red, as if she had been crying - or at the very least, upset. He wasn't sure why, unless things were much worse off than he thought.

"Hey," he tried to say. It mostly came out as an inaudible slur, as his jaw felt too tired to fully work.

She looked up immediately, frowning at him. "You shouldn't try to talk," she told him unnecessarily. He didn't want to try to talk again, considering how much it hurt to try and speak. As if the bone was grating against bone, with nothing to cushion it. He could at least be grateful his jaw wasn't broken.

"I'm sorry." At his questioning look, she carried on. "I should have told you... that prisoner I helped escaped, and he was angry. He's been sending threatening texts, and pictures. I was going to tell you but I was worried you might try to find him... but if I told you, you would have at least known there was danger," she was rambling, just slightly, emotions high. He felt a surge of anger, that some asshole had been stalking here, and he didn't know. But he didn't feel the same anger towards her. She was right. He would have tried to go after the guy.

Unwilling to talk, worried his jaw might break just to spite him, he nodded.

When he healed, he knew he had only one goal. Protect Jordan.

* * *

End chapter note: I was thinking this could become its own mini-story. Though it won't be any time soon, I'll put that in my mind for later. It would be... interesting. Anyway, next up. I randomly thought of it last night, actually.. a helicopter crash. They're heading out to a scene and the copter crashes somewhere. Ahh. Thanks for reading!


	23. Helicopter (OS)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift. I am also not a doctor or a medical professional. I'm taking pathophisiology though so does that count?

Note: I was thinking about what I wanted to do for the fire chapter (STILL) and got nowhere. But I remembered the helicopter and thought a helicopter crash would be... fun.

* * *

They flew smoothly above high roof tops on their way out of the major part of the city. The crash was out in the rural areas, significant enough that an ambulance would take too long. Another was en route, in case there was another critical or a non-critical that _became_ critical. Which could always happen, and frequently did, when accidents caused unknown health conditions to flare up. Heart attacks, aneurysms, defects. The simple whiplash of a sudden stop during a car crash would be more than enough to set off many events, even if they took some time to show symptoms.

He could feel the gentle whoosh of the blades, the slight vibration that shook the entire vehicle. Up ahead, the pilots checked their displays and spoke into their radios to give a constant relay of how far out they were. Drew sat across from TC, taking turns between looking out the window at the city below and checking his phone. The ride out was often peaceful and quiet, with little conversation. Just absorbing the sights and enjoying the moments before everything would become crazy. No matter how many times he looked out over the brilliant expanse of lights from above it was still just as beautiful. He knew there wouldn't be much time to simply relax once they got to the scene, and especially not on the emergency flight back to the ER. Such returns were frequently chaotic. Helicopters were quick alternatives to ambulances but they were nowhere near steady.

They were had finally passed over the last of the city buildings, moving towards trees and the randomly spaced country homes, when he heard it. The slight bang, the sound of gears and mechanics scraping against each other. The helicopter gave a sudden, ominous lurch, before seeming to shudder in place. He and Drew both shared an anxious glance, before turning their attention to the pilots who began to scramble at the controls.

Something was wrong. The smell of acrid smoke rushing into the open side door was another clue.

"Get your belts on!" The co-pilot yelled back at them. TC hadn't take his off, and with a quick glance he noticed Drew hadn't either. "We're going to try and emergency land in an open field below," the man said.

TC didn't have a lot of enthusiasm for the thought. _Emergency landing_ on helicopters didn't often go well. In fact, they usually ended up with the helicopter's blades shredding the cabin or everything bursting into a brilliant fireball. He forced the thoughts of a less than spectacular crash from his mind and gripped the bar above him tightly, as if it would save him from flying shrapnel and the inevitable back lash of stones and branches when they went close to the uncleared ground.

The helicopter lurched up and down in awkward motions. They were trying to drop to the ground without free-falling, or gaining too much speed that would result in everything destroying itself on impact. It made his stomach lurch, and he was sure if he survived this he would probably be throwing up by the time they hit the ground. A few moments later the blades above made another grating sound of metal against metal, followed by an ominous sound of steam pouring. But it probably wasn't steam. It was probably smoke. It flooded the air each time they angled upwards, trying to fight gravity in an odd game of tug of war.

He gritted his teeth and looked out the window. They were getting close, but he noted nervously that they were rapidly getting closer to a treeline, and he knew the exterior of the helicopter probably wasn't made to survive a direct impact with a tree.

The helicopter made one final lurch upwards, before going straight down. They had their momentum, but were they close enough to make the impact without the force killing everyone on board?

They hit the ground hard. He felt his entire body plunge forward, against the safety belt. His hand was wrenched harshly from the bar he was holding. The sound of tearing metal, breaking glass. The brief scents of smoke, then gasoline, then back to smoke. Were they going to explode? The body of the helicopter rolled, and things fell apart. His head struck hardest against metal, his neck was thrown forward. The screeching noise was momentarily so loud he found himself impossibly disoriented. Something hit again. Pain momentarily took place of shock before unconsciousness took.

Unconsciousness was brief in between periods of partial awareness. Flickers of noise. Wafts of smoke and gasoline. Sometimes his eyes manage to force themselves open, and he saw his hand outstretched toward the ground, blood streaming across his fingertips.

 _Drip._

One time he was aware he was looking up rather than down. Had the belt given out? He couldn't remember falling. But he could scarcely remember anything at all, so he wasn't very surprised.

Just confused.

There was more noise.

The top of the badly destroyed helicopter faded out of view. He blinked, and his next view was of the sky. Brilliantly blue, with wisps of dark grey smoke. He blinked again. Someone was blocking his view of the sky, and their face was bloody. The person's mouth was moving, but he heard no words. Was his hearing damaged?

No, he could hear. The roaring outside seemed to override everything around.

There were flames, once.

Then he was out again.

* * *

 **Drew POV**

The first impact made him lose consciousness completely. At least, for a few brief moments. The last sound of the dying engine was still spluttering when he regained awareness, to a pounding headache and general pains pulsing through much of his body. Most of them felt superficial, a result of hitting the ground with such force. There was something wrong with his back, however, since the pain when he shifted was far worse, far more sickening feeling, than the rest of him.

He was momentarily content to just lay there, for at least a few minutes, trying not to cough on the reek of gasoline.

 _The gasoline._

He forced his eyes open, wincing at the throbbing in his head. If there was a smell of gas, then there was a leak. A leak would lead to an explosion if a spark occurred, and a spark occurring with a still functional engine was quite possible. He needed to get out. They all did.

The first problem was he was upside down, staring down at the top of the helicopter, still fastened to his seat. The second was, after looking around, that TC was still unconscious. And bleeding rather heavily.

Ahead, the first pilot was crawling out of the wreckage dragging a bloodied leg. The second wasn't moving. A large branch had busted through that side of the front, and the bloodied end of it was poking out the back of the seat. Something told Drew it wasn't unconscious that led to the lack of motion. His first priotity, however, was TC, whose blood was making a not so nice puddle on the the roof.

Getting him down would be easier without the back pain, but he was somehow successful in not letting his friend's head strike off the metal. He breathed out a heavy sigh of pain, before he began to make a valiant effort in dragging him away.

Carrying would be beyond the capabilities of his sore back. Dragging was just about at the peak.

He lost his grip several times in what appeared to be a bloodied mess of a broken arm, where the shaft of bone was piercing through the skin halfway between his wrist and elbow. The wrist wasn't faring much better, looking painfully swollen, hand seemingly twisted beyond where it should be. He couldn't quite fathom how he got the injury unless it was from him hanging onto the metal bar too long.

TC's eyes opened at about the time Drew got them to a safe distance, but he seemed far too out of it. While his eyes did fall upon Drew he didn't react at all to anything Drew said, only to close again just in time for the gas to ignite and send a loud fireball into the air. Drew ducked down to avoid any flying debris and metals, wincing as the heat rolled over him.

His ears rang as silence fell over the area, and he looked around to see the injured pilot had also made it a safe distance, and was looking back at the destroyed, burning helicopter, in disbelief.

"Hey, you alright?" Drew called. He knew it was a stupid question, given what had happened, but he needed to make sure the guy wasn't going to die of blood loss sometime in the next few minutes if Drew didn't look at him. He wasn't sure if he dared to set TC's arm back on the field without any x-ray to determine the damage, but he did need to stop the bleeding.

"Nothing serious," the man replied almost numbly, before applying pressure to his bleeding leg.

Drew nodded, before getting into the medical bag that was still attached to his hip, somehow not having been ripped off him during the crash. He pulled out gauze, and trying not to look too closely at the pointy shaft of bone poking out his friend's arm, he pressed the gauze around the bleeding edges.

It was only natural that the pain would be enough to send TC back into the world of consciousness.

* * *

 **TC POV**

His arm. It woke him up and it was the only thing he could really focus on. The pain tore through him, sharp and agonizing. He writhed on the ground, feeling aches and pains flaring up all across his body, but they were nothing - not even a distraction - compared with the feeling in his arm. He was being held down, and he knew it, but he didn't have the strength to do anything about it. He just wanted his arm to stop hurting, and was seriously considering finding something to cut it off. The pain did not fade at all. Instead, he slowly adjusted to it, and as he did, he was able to think of something beyond it hurting. Small pieces of information.

Drew pressing a red sheet of gauze against his arm while simultaneously telling him to calm down. When his head rolled, he could see the burning remains of the helicopter, standing out starkly against the green field and trees. The loud wail of sirens, still far off, caught his attention for a brief moment before the pain grounded him again.

Drew's constant talking and questions finally made him focus.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?"

TC tried to feel his body, but the pain in his arm overrode everything else. He didn't feel that great anywhere, but he couldn't determine if he was injured or just sore. Breathing felt difficult, but it could simply just be from the pain itself rather than a physical restraint. For a brief moment the gauze shifted and he caught sight of the tip of a bone protruding sharply through the skin, and fought down a wave of nausea. He had broken his arm before, but it had been a closed fracture, and hadn't hurt this bad. Undoubtedly the break was far more complex than it looked just from the outside, and there was no wonder why the pain was overwhelming the rest of his senses.

"Can't tell," he replied, trembling with the effort it took not to try and shove the bone back into place. Now that he had seen it he couldn't quite erase the image of it, unnaturally sticking out. The medical part of his brain reminded him that setting it without knowing the damage might only make it worse.

"The ambulance is almost here... then you can get something for the pain," Drew promised.

Normally TC wouldn't be very enthused at the idea of painkillers but at this moment, with several inches of bone sticking out of his arm, he could hardly wait for it. It would be even better if he wasn't conscious when they shoved it back in, although he knew how hard his body often fought to regain consciousness. Brief memories of waking several different times following the crash flashed into mind.

He peered closely at Drew, trying to distract himself. He was holding himself oddly, pressing into the gauze, as if something hurt. Judging by the position...

"Your back?" He asked. Not enough ability to force more words into the sentence. He couldn't quite find the energy to ask if it was alright, but Drew would probably figure it out rather quickly.

"Sore," was the only reply. Drew's expression twisted into a grimace. "The bleeding isn't slowing at all, and you're losing a lot of blood. I'm going to need to put more pressure," he said.

TC didn't mention that he would rather bleed out than have his arm pressed on even the slightest bit more. As it was he wouldn't have time to say it. Drew needed to slow the bleeding now rather than later, and TC's complaints would have been ignored anyway. The increased pressure was immediately followed by a horrifying pain, as if every inch of bone and skin in his arm had suddenly shattered or been ripped apart. He wasn't sure if the loud noise he heard was the ambulance, the ringing in his ears taking on more strength, or a scream.

He also wasn't quite sure if he had lost consciousness or if his brain had simply decided to block out his memories of what followed after, as the next thing he was aware of was jolting up in a hospital bed with a massive cast stretching from his elbow to his hand and a feeling of pressure around his chest which, after poking around at it, turned out to be a brace.

Pain waited until after he sat up to make itself known, forcing him to gasp out a breath of shock before slowly, carefully lowering himself down. His arm was no longer the overpowering force of pain as it had been.

His ribs made themselves known, almost smugly, as if they were making up for lost time.

"How's the arm?" Jordan asked, from where she had been standing at the edge of the room, unknowing to him. He glanced around as he finished easing himself back onto the bed, enjoying the soft cushioning around his sore ribs.

"Not too bad," he replied. "Just a little sore now."

She nodded in understanding. "Drew is fine, before you ask. A few bruises over his spine, but no serious damage."

"The pilots?" He asked. He hadn't remembered seeing them during his random bouts of consciousness. He was hopeful they had all gotten out but he didn't know. Her expression seemed to get guarded, however, and he was suddenly aware that something must be wrong.

"One got a few lacerations along his leg. He'll be fine. The other... he was killed on impact."

He understood that helicopter accidents did not generally have good outcomes, but it was still like a punch to the gut.

"Your arm will be in a cast for several weeks. It was broken in two places. You also broke your wrist," Jordan told him, and while he heard her, he wasn't paying his full attention. "Your have three fractured ribs. You both got lucky not to be hurt worse," she added. He nodded, half attentive, trying to pretend he couldn't _feel_ her sympathetic look burning his skin.

"Okay. Thank you," he replied. He felt guilty for being dismissive, but she understood.

She left him to his thoughts.

* * *

End chapter note: I am currently struggling to get things working properly on this new laptop, but I'm getting there! Next chapter will be, finally, the rewrite of the forest fire if TC was around and went instead of Scott. About time, right? Also does it feel like the holidays snuck up really quickly to anyone else? I'm definitely not ready. I haven't even done any shopping.


	24. Burned (RW)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift. I am also not a doctor or a medical professional. I'm taking pathophisiology though so does that count?

Note: I like to cook. I also burn myself nearly every time I cook something. Burns are pretty painful, so a rather big burn is probably much worse than a little burn from accidentally touching the side of the oven. Burns away! Also skipping most of the beginning dialogue because it'd be the same as in the episode. Or similar.

* * *

Smoke choked the air. It blew around thick and heavy, even when they weren't near the fire itself. It was far enough across a river for him not to worry about it blowing into his own house, but here they were, landing in the midst of the burning forest. Most of the fire raged behind them, as they had landed in an already burned area. Although the burned area wasn't quite as destroyed as it could be, due to how fast the fire had swept through. He tried not to cough as he breathed in, the smoke burning at his mouth and nose. It was unnaturally warm, given their proximity to the fire. Ash puffed up with each step he made, increasing the harshness of the polluted air.

Jordan also seemed to take a few moments to adjust to the smoke and fire, before peering around into the gloomy forest. There was an injured firefighter they needed to find, and they had been waved down in this area by a man wearing a light vest. He spotted him, just briefly atop the hill further from the fire than they were.

"Up there," he said to Jordan and they both began to trek up the hill, avoiding still smoking, still burning shrubs. He pressed a hand over his mouth, breathing shallowly to avoid getting too much of the smoke into his throat and lungs. It didn't seem to dissuade the smoke from doing anything of the sort, as his throat was burning and he felt pressure in his chest, trying to fight down a cough. He wasn't fond of fire. Smoke was one of his least favorite things to deal with, making it hard to breath and, just in general, causing silent damage. He glanced back to check on the fire, relieved to see that the wind was still blowing it away from them. At any moment it could change and send the fire rushing rapidly in their direction. They needed to move fast.

At the top of the hill they found a small shack, somehow untouched, mostly, by fire, where the man was waiting outside. His vest was ashen and he waved them in, where they found the injured firefighter lying across a wooden table. She looked pale, face stained black. He could tell just by looking that she needed pure oxygen. Too much smoke.

Unfortunately their time began to ran down when the man - who had introduced himself as Mac - warned them that the wind had changed and they needed to move. It was obvious to everyone here, as they left, carrying the patient on the stretcher, that there was absolutely no way they'd get to an evacuation point in time without being caught by the fire. It was returning quickly, burning through all the underbrush and trees that remained from the previous pass.

TC stared at the small aluminum-coloured sack that was thrown in his direction, staring at Mac. He knew what it was. He also knew that they weren't the most effective things on the planet, and he wasn't quite sure both he and Jordan would safely fit in one. But they only had two, and there weren't any other options.

It wasn't until he was trying to hold down the edges of the of the heat-resistant material, in a rather awkward position considering the situation, that he realized there was a tear in the edge. He pressed his hand on the tear, trying to keep it flat on the ground to avoid any risk of smoking flooding in, as well as hoping the flame would just rush past quickly without getting too close. That hope was vanquished by the searing pain that began to take place on the palm of his hand, and he wasn't quite able to resist a hiss of pain. Jordan noticed, of course, and she looked at him worriedly after they had pointedly not been looking at one another.

They weren't together anymore.

"What's wrong?"

"There's a small cut in the material. Burns," he replied, teeth gritted. The heat continued to practically bake his hand. The rest of the 'tent' seemed to do its job, preventing the flames from scorching. It was heating up rapidly, but somehow, other than the small area of his hand, they weren't burning up. The air was hot, but the smoke was staying out. Gradually the pain in his hand was becoming much worse, as the fire roared on all sides around them.

Was the skin melting? It felt like it was melting. He couldn't lift his hand to check without risking letting in a gust of smoke that would choke them to death in the time they were supposed to stay under. He shook with the effort it took not to move away from the blistering pain.

The fire roared on. The heat remained. The pain remained. He recalled Mac's instructions to remain inside for fifteen minutes, so that all the toxins from the smoke would, hopefully, fade slightly. Breathing in the freshly burned air would be worse for his health than the burn on his hand. So he remained still, hoping his skin hadn't melted to the materials and that the fire didn't decide to change direction once again and come back for a second pass. The pain was sickening, and he knew the damage would only continue to get worse the longer he went without applying something cool to the skin. But there wasn't exactly anything _cool_ around here. No water, no ice. Just endless burning forests.

Five minutes ticked by. He wasn't sure how he knew, other than simply counting the time by with the internal clock in his head. Jordan seemed to sense his growing distress and pain and tried to distract him with words.

"Did you ever want to be a firefighter?" She asked.

Many kids wanted to be firefighters when they were younger. Most people had an intense fascination with fire - the heat, the colours, the flickering flames. It's why kids played with matches and lighters, to look at the flames and inevitably start a house fire. It's why the more obsessive version of liking fire resulted in some people setting fire to things for enjoyment - pyromaniacs. But there was another side to it. The people who didn't like fire. TC had a tendency to consider himself one of them.

"No. I wanted to be a guitarist," he said with a grin. Though in reality he couldn't remember what he wanted to be when he grew up. A guitarist sounded like something boys liked, though. "Thad wanted to be a firefighter," he added. His brother shared the usual fascination with fire.

Thad had always been the kind of person who wanted to help people.

"I don't think I could picture you as a guitarist," Jordan said after a moment of contemplating him talking about Thad. He didn't often do so. But it seemed to get easier, with time, to talk about his brother. Easier with Jordan, after his breakdown years ago when Topher had been shot and he had told her the truth. It wasn't exactly something he made a habit of, however. He shifted slightly to ease the pressure in his shoulders, which sent pain flaring into his hand.

"Yeah... neither can I," he replied.

Silence.

Ten minutes passed. He was sure if he tried to move his hand now it would be molded into the ground. Pain seared from his hand up his arm, nerves irritated one by one. His throat felt dry and uncomfortable. Some smoke had started to trickle in, just enough to irritate breathing. He closed his eyes as he listened to the ominous sound of the fire racing away, scorching everything in its unbiased path. Fire didn't care what was in its way. It would carry on, endlessly, until it ran out of fuel. As was often the case, in wildfires. No matter how much water they threw at it, it carried on. Only when every last available source of fuel to burn was burned to ash, or it was trapped within an area, unable to move beyond, would it end.

He hated fire.

At some point he could hear Mac yelling that it was clear to get out, and he wasted no time twisting around, pulling off the 'tarp'. He winced when he found that the skin on his hand, had indeed been burned enough to practically attach his skin to the fabric he had been trying to keep down. He looked over it, nauseated more from pain than from the sight of it - he had seen worse, after all. It was slightly different when he could feel it, however.

He wanted to rip it off completely but the medically inclined part of his brain knew it was a bad idea. He settled with cutting around it, leaving the patch of fabric still attached to his hand alone.

It throbbed and pulsed painfully, and he was sure the skin, if he was able to see it, would be badly blistered. Jordan poured some water from one of their remaining water bottles over it, a last ditch attempt to cool it so it wouldn't get much more damage.

Coughing at the smoke, they proceeded toward the evacuation site. Up above there was still flames burning at the tops of the trees, not swept away by the wind like the majority of the wall of fire. Occasionally the burning branches fell, but there was nothing left on the ground to be burned, and he sidestepped to avoid the flames. They reached new ground, the tops of trees still burning, while the ground was mostly untouched. They were close to the evacuation zone, and he found himself exhausted as he continued to walk forward, a one-handed grip on the stretcher. Their battered group stopped frequently to breath, oxygen levels too low thanks to the consumption by the flames.

He heard a startled noise from Jordan behind him as something large and _hot_ smashed into his back. He lost his grip on the stretcher, and his end of it crashed into the ground, heavily jostling the patient. He would have apologized, if he wasn't suddenly and agonizingly aware that the back of his jacket, dry and hot from smoke, was burning. And so was his skin.

Someone shoved him down just moments before a practiced memory kicked into his brain, and he tried to roll. _Stop, drop, and roll_ was something drilled into people's minds so much for the sole purpose that it would hopefully break through the initial shock of being on fire, so they didn't get burned too badly. Unfortunately something was stopping him from rolling, someone was yelling at him to hold still, and someone else was yelling that the helicopter was close. The burning branch - he was mostly certain it was a branch - was moved away but it didn't quite matter now that his back was on fire and the pain overrode his senses, chasing away the shock as quickly as the lapping flames burned at his skin.

A moment later something heavy came down on his back, smothering the flames outright.

He found himself wanting nothing more than to go lie down in an ice bath, despite the fact that cold water would just make the damage worse. Someone pulled him to his feet when he made an awkward motion to stand, every instinct telling him to get up and move.

Before the next thing to fall on him was a burning tree and not just a branch.

The many minutes between walking and getting into the helicopter blurred together. He found himself leaning forward, as to not press his injured back and shoulders against anything that could aggravate the burns.

"I hate fire," he said quietly to Jordan, as she applied a soothing cream to ease the damage and pain from the burns into his skin.

* * *

End chapter note: Oh no... finals week. It came up so fast I didn't realize it until now. Fortunately it is only a week, and not several weeks. Which means it will be done by Friday. In an effort to try and focus myself on my school work (for once) I will not work on the next chapter until it's over (sorry guys!). That means the next chapter will be up at the beginning of next week. I have no idea what it'll be about but I'll check the comments this weekend for any ideas, or maybe come up with something. I hope you guys are having a good season!


	25. Trapped (OS)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift. I am also not a doctor or a medical professional. I'm taking pathophisiology though so does that count?

Note: I actually had this thought randomly after watching a movie. I don't remember what the movie, but at least it gave me an idea! Or, the one where TC nearly gets crushed.

* * *

The weather had wreaked havoc across the city, knocking over trees, destroying buildings, and flooding many areas. They had barely been able to get to the motel in which the emergency cry had called from to try and find, stabilize, and help the many people who were trapped inside. The damage was mainly limited to the older half of the building. The newer half, built more recently as an addition when they expanded, was still stable, although if it did fall the heavy slabs of wood and concrete would be much worse than the first side. He was kneeling down beside a woman who had a slab of wood through her side, which, with panting breaths, she said she had gotten from falling from the stairs when they collapsed.

Drew was further down, wrapping a heavily bleeding leg. TC found himself distracted by someone screaming down the hallway, a kid saying their mother wasn't waking up. His patient was stable enough to be carried out by the paramedics, so he went running down the hall to find the woman. She lay in bed, face pale, skin sweaty. He could feel the fever blasting from her skin. He ran back out into the hall, telling the kid to call a family member, and waved over the paramedics. A strange noise caught his attention. A cracking sound, further down the hall in the stable half of the building. A door slammed shut and a man was screaming at a teenage girl who ran out of the door. He couldn't quite be sure what was going on - and why the entire building hadn't been evacuated already. A moment later he heard an awful shrieking sound, followed by cracking and tearing. Dust poured down on him, and chips of wood peppered off his face.

He staggered back, looking up just in time to see a fractured section of the roof falling away completely, a heavy slab of wood slamming into him. He fell straight back, his head bouncing off the floor.

He must have lost consciousness, at least briefly, because the next thing he was aware of was an enormous weight on his chest. Pain shuddered through his rib cage with each gasping, desperate breath, and he looked down to see a large slab of some kind of concrete-looking block lying across most of his upper body, pinning him to the floor. It was impossible hard to breath, needing to force air in in small motions. His lungs wouldn't fill properly, his chest unable to rise past a certain point. He forced himself to lie still, breathing slow, long breaths in an effort to keep calm.

He winced as he tried to shift, checking if he could even move. The slab was too heavy, pinning him beneath it like he was nothing. The only thing preventing it from crushing his chest was that it had fallen on top of a pile, and only part of it was lying on him. He tried to move his legs, hoping they were free. His left leg moved freely, not that it did him any good. His right leg came to life pulsing with red, hot agony, pain searing him. He groaned, practically the only sound he was capable of making, knowing he must have broken it. He could feel his foot but couldn't move it, nor could he lift it. Something warm was rapidly spreading down his leg, from his lower thigh, and he was sure it was blood.

He lay, eyes closed, breathing as shallowly as he could until he heard someone yelling "Tee" and heard the sound of someone crashing through what must be a barricade of wood and stone being shoved out of the way.

He would shout back and say he was alive, but found himself unable to make any noise louder than that of a wheezing cough.

Dust and dirt from rarely cleaned rafters slid down the broken ceiling, like sand streaming into a bucket. He turned his head away to avoid anything falling on his face, anything that would make him cough that would send him into a spiraling pit of pain. He could practically feel the bones in his chest creaking, ribs trembling with the effort not to break. Judging by the pain he felt with each breath, some were probably broken already, most likely from the impact. His sternum was likely bruised as hell, but since he wasn't dead, it hadn't broken in half and plunged into his chest cavity.

Every breath was a struggle. His chest felt warm, which was strange, since when he felt the slab with his hand it was cold.

After a what felt like hours but was probably minutes, he could hear footsteps running up to him after the debris had probably been, finally, shifted out of the way. it didn't really matter, since it would take more than a person to move this slab. It was far too heavy, and he had seen people trying to lift things off others and drop them or lose their grip and kill them far too many times to even consider allowing them to do the same.

"Tee?" The worried voice made him focus on near darkness at the edge of his vision. Drew had made it in, and was making his way quickly to his side. His expression was one of worry, and he dropped down beside TC, waving at someone outside of his vision. "He's bringing something to help," Drew told him. TC had no idea who _he_ was but after a few moments he decided he didn't care. His body hurt. Aside from his leg he couldn't really pinpoint a general area that hurt. Everything throbbed dully, muscles stiff. He could practically feel the blood pumping through his veins, hindered by lack of oxygen and by the compression of his chest.

More worrisome was the blood trickling down his sides. Was it a skin wound from the slab scraping off his skin, or was he bleeding from broken bones? It was a growing effort to try and take stock of what was wrong.

"Blood." He was only able to spare enough breath for a single word, and hoped Drew would understand. If he was bleeding from his chest than lifting the slab would be a bit more dangerous, depending how deep the compression injury was. He didn't quite like the thought of bleeding to death on the dusty ground of a motel, although it may be less painful than being crushed to death in that same location.

"Your leg's broken rather badly. It's not bleeding too much though," Drew replied.

"No," TC replied. Not his leg. His leg didn't matter, although he wouldn't be opposed to someone doing something to ease the pain. He raised his arm, which was becoming worryingly numb, pins and needles shooting down. He motioned it towards his chest before he let it drop, certain that would be enough of an explanation.

It was rapidly becoming harder to breath.

"Your chest is bleeding?" Drew guessed.

He nodded.

His eyes closed. Drew started telling him to stay awake, and he made a disagreeable sound. He wasn't planning on falling asleep. He just wanted to focus on breathing and not spent any of his focus on anything else. Staring up at the ceiling, wondering if more of it was going to come crashing down on both of them, wasn't really helpful to his situation. He'd rather death be a surprise anyway.

A loud banging sound forced him to open his eyes, however, to see what looked like a large, hydraulic jack. It was rather surprising to see that being used, rather than more common equipment, but he knew if they tried to saw off the slab so they could move it, it would lose what was preventing it from killing him outright. The jack would take the weight off the free side, and then he could slide right out underneath it. If he wasn't bleeding from a deep open chest injury, that is.

The first shift of the slab made his breath catch in his chest. There was a slight groaning sound which he realized wasn't from him, but was from the slab as it moved. The next few movements, done quickly, brought it up. The weight lifted off his chest.

Blood soaked into his shirt.

* * *

 **Drew POV**

Drew wasn't quite surprised when TC lost consciousness, and his eyes moved instantly to the amount of blood that was currently soaking into his shirt. He managed to drag his friend out from under the slab before it could crack and fall back down, or before some other equally awful event occurred. He pressed down on TC's chest, to stem the bleeding, immediately feeling the slight shift in the bone beneath his hands. The blood was trickling rapidly from skin that had been rather viciously torn by the weight alone, deep enough in some places to reveal muscle underneath. He was bleeding fast but Drew knew it wouldn't be life threatening.

The broken bones were another story. He could feel the indents of multiple broken ribs. He could also feel the break in the center of the sternum, although it didn't seem to be apparent enough for him to worry that it had punctured a vital organ.

Breathing still remained weak and shallow, bones moving inwards, grating with each exhale. If TC hadn't lost consciousness from the sudden shock of blood loss, he probably would by now simply from the pain.

They hurried to carry him out, careful of the broken leg, when he had checked to make sure he would be stable enough for transport. Save any sudden shifts in broken bone lodging the edge of one into an organ, he should be alright. With that in mind he made sure the paramedics gave him a sedative so he didn't wake up and start trying to thrash around in his usual, post-wakening manner. Then was the long, nerve-wracking drive back to the hospital with an additional serious patient. The first step would be to set the many broken bones once they were sure nothing vital had been pierced, but he was sure that wasn't the case. The bleeding had slowed significantly and seemed to be mostly surface level.

With the help of Scott and a couple x-rays, he pressed three cleanly broken ribs back into place. Two others were fractured but still in place, and the rest seemed to have deep bruises without any structural deformity. The sternum needed a little surgical help to get it back where it should be, but it hadn't busted its way through into the lungs or heart. The leg was another story. Broken in two places, they had to wire the bones in his ankle together due to the damage done. It would be in a completely immobile cast for several weeks.

He knew immediately that TC would not tolerate it well, and so the healing time would take longer.

All in all, getting struck by a massive concrete slab usually didn't end in surgery. It ended in a body bag. Watching his friend resting in bed, leg in a cast, chest wrapped tightly, Drew realized TC had been extremely lucky.

* * *

End chapter note: School destroyed all my energy. I'm struggling to write, even now. But I promised a beginning-of-next-week post so I delivered! Whew. I'm just tired, but hopefully after this week things will start to look better, and most of all - less exhausting! Thanks for sticking through the week!


	26. Seizure (OS)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift. I am also not a doctor or a medical professional. I'm taking pathophisiology though so does that count?

Note: I wanted to do this a long time ago but I didn't because I spent too long thinking of a reason 'why' it would happen. Now I realize it doesn't matter why, because we only want to know the 'it'. Or, the one where TC has a seizure, and Jordan finds him and takes care of him.

* * *

He didn't cook often. It wasn't that he didn't like to cook, or didn't know how. It was simply because he rarely had the time and energy. He would get home from work and usually heat up something or buy something quick so he could sleep. And by the time he woke up, it was the same breakfast as usual. Nothing fancy about cooking eggs. But given he had a day off he decided he'd invite Jordan over for dinner, since it had been a little bit too long since he had last done so. With short staff they had been getting more hours and less time to do things together, but today they both had the same time off so he could finally schedule it.

He was taking the pasta off the heat, draining it and letting it cool while the sauce simmered on low. He was going to make a salad, and then...

He was lying on the floor. His head pounded, worse on the right. His muscles felt dull and painful, as if he had just done a triathlon, and he had trouble moving his arm up to touch his head. It barely responded to his commands, and he was gradually aware of the fact he was shaking. His mouth tasted of metal. His tongue was throbbing, and he was aware of liquid dripping from his lip. With the most effort he could manage, he raised his arm, which trembled weakly and ached with the motion, and felt liquid on his hand when he touched his lips. The right side of his face was wet, but also itched, and he could feel something dry crusted onto his skin while fresh, warm liquid slowly trickled down.

What had happened?

His eyes opened, but he could see only darkness. Or no, that wasn't quite right. There were patches of sight wavering in and out of focus in spots of his vision, but mostly, it was dark. He blinked slowly, wondering if he had fallen and hit his head so hard that he had a concussion. But he couldn't remember falling, or slipping. He couldn't even remember a brief flare of pain that usually followed hitting his head on something. It was just emptiness, between walking over to get to the salad ingredients and waking up now.

He tried to rise to his feet, immediately realizing it was a bad idea, when he got halfway up and his legs collapsed beneath him. His arms failed to grasp anything for support and he dropped to the ground like dead weight, wincing at the pain in his head and muscles. He looked around, trying to see where he was. Was he in the kitchen? His vision was returning gradually, the spots of sight growing larger as the blackness faded, but he felt only confusion. Things looked familiar, but not recognizable. A couch, a table, an arched doorway. Where was he? He placed a hand against his head at the fresh throb of pain, as if thinking was making it worse. Had he left his house and gone somewhere? Had he been attacked.

He lay still for several minutes, time ticking by. He suddenly had a coherent thought beyond the confusion and grabbed for his phone, shakily removing it from his pocket. His confusion got worse when he realized it was only 10 minutes since he had checked it before. Jordan would be arriving any time now.

How had he gotten here?

But then, as his eyesight became far more normal, albeit blurry with lights swimming before his eyes, he recognized the old cabinet on the wall. It was the same one in his living room. And as he looked around once again he realized he was in his living room, and all the things that he had not been able to recognize fit back into place.

 _What the hell is going on?_

And why couldn't he remember what happened?

"Tee?" The voice startled him, having been unaware of anyone else in the house. He hadn't even heard a door opening and closing, or the sound of walking. But sure enough when he looked up, he saw Jordan at the side entrance to the living room, looking at him in shock before she ran over. "What happened?"

He tried to come up with an explanation, or at least anything that would make sense. But he had nothing. "I don't remember," he said, relieved the slight slur was mostly because his tongue throbbed. Had he bitten it? That must be the source of the blood in his mouth. It was difficult to try and put the pieces together when his head didn't feel like cooperating, swamped in confusion and a strange, buzzing fullness that left him feeling slow and exhausted.

"You're bleeding," she said gently, pressing on a spot on the right side of his head which made him wince. "Did you fall?"

He must have, if he was lying on the ground. "I guess. Don't remember anything." He felt blood drip from his mouth, tongue still bleeding sluggishly from what must be a bite wound. Would he have bitten his tongue when he fell after he hit his head?

"You bit your tongue?" She asked, although it wasn't really a question that needed an answer when she saw the blood.

He nodded, which sent crippling pain through his head and made his vision blur and spin out of control. He swallowed reflexively against a surge of nausea, closing his eyes until it passed. Jordan had slipped her around his shoulders, steadying him as the shaking increased. Although the shaking seemed more like a reflexive tremor than a response to cold or stress, as if the muscles themselves were spasming beyond control.

"Let's get you to the couch, alright?" Jordan suggested.

"Okay," he said agreeably. The couch would be much more comfortable on his sore muscles than the floor. He looked blankly at bruises on his hands, just noticing them now as he raised his arms in an effort to find something to pull himself upright. He failed to grasp anything, and was aware of the slightly visible, worried frown on Jordan's face as she noticed he was incapable of standing on his own. Was she thinking he had hit his head so hard that he would need to go to the ER for a scan? He didn't want to go anywhere right now, except somewhere soft and comfortable - and preferably warm. He wanted to sleep.

She helped to pull him up, and he leaned more heavily on her than he wanted to, legs shaking as they protested taking his weight. He struggled forward, forcing his weak, throbbing limbs to move. He stumbled over the change in the floor, nearly falling if she didn't rapidly adjust her grip to hold him up, making their awkward procession stop as he got his bearings back.

They stumbled the rest of the way, and he leaned tiredly into the couch, relieved at the softness. He pulled his legs up to his chest, ignoring the dull throbbing pains that accompanied the movement, and rested his head on his knees. His body shook from a combination of uncontrolled tremors and a coldness that had settled in him.

"You bit your tongue, hit your head, lost consciousness, have muscle weakness and you're shaking... what else?" Jordan was asking.

He knew she was trying to figure out what was going on to try and help him. "Blurry vision.. I couldn't see much after I woke up, but it got better. Tired. Muscles sore and stiff. And I'm cold," he listed, continuing to shiver while he curled in on himself tighter, wrapping his arms around his legs and squeezing in an effort to regain some warmth in his painful limbs. He could hear movement around him but he didn't look up, content to keep his eyes closed and try to drift off to sleep. He was sure if he could at least rest a bit he would wake up feeling much better. He suddenly felt a blanket being draped around his tense shoulders. He shifted into it, enjoying the feeling of the fabric on his skin. Needing warmth to bleed into him.

"Tee?" Her voice was quiet, as if toned down to be gentle enough not to make his head throb worse. He opened his eyes to look at her, wondering if she would simply let him rest. "I think you had a seizure and hit your head."

He blinked in understanding. Seizures sounded scary to most people, since they _looked_ really scary but since he basically worked around patients having seizures for all varieties of reasons it wasn't such a worrying idea. Still, it was slightly alarming to wonder why he had a seizure. Did he have some kind of infection? Had he ingested something he shouldn't have, or been exposed to something dangerous? The worst case scenario - at least, in his opinion - would be to have had his first seizure of many that would lead to a diagnosis of epilepsy. He couldn't work in the ER if he was going to have a seizure at any moment, especially in the emergency room. And since he couldn't remember the events leading up to it he had no idea if he had an aura, or any warning that it had been about to happen.

"I'm going to have Topher come and get some blood, okay? You can stay here and rest," she told him.

"Okay," he agreed, relieved he didn't have to go anywhere. He lowered his throbbing, no longer bleeding head onto his knees, closing his eyes. He must have dozed immediately, because he hadn't even noticed Jordan sit down next to him, leaning slightly into him and rubbing his back while he shivered into the blanket. He woke to the sound of Topher quietly talking, and a washcloth wiping at the blood dried to his head to try and clean it off.

He looked around blearily, vision still blurred, but maybe this time from sleepiness.

His body was feeling more numb than sore now, although his head still throbbed and his tongue felt swollen. He was no longer bleeding, and he laid his head back against the couch, having almost immediately forgotten about the washcloth wiping at the blood.

"How are you feeling?" Jordan asked.

"Tired," he replied. Mostly just tired. He didn't even feel cold anymore, although he kept the blanket wrapped tightly around him anyway, as its very presence was comforting to him. Beneath the blanket, his hands still shook, and he was sure his legs were also shaking slightly, small tremors being the only sign of a seizure. Hopefully that would go away sooner than later, so he could walk around and do everything normally.

"I'm going to draw some blood and make sure everything's alright," Topher announced.

TC simply nodded, adding blood drawn as the last interruption between him and sleep. He hardly felt the needle go into his shoulder, despite the occasional twitch in the tired muscle that should hurt. As soon as the blood was drawn and the little round bandaid was put on he fell straight back asleep. This time he didn't wake up until it was nearly morning.

* * *

End chapter note: Most of my post-seizure symptoms come from my mother's experience with seizures! I've never had a seizure (that I know of) although I am actually on a high-risk for developing seizures so I'm actually alert for potential warning symptoms. Anyway, maybe there may be another part in the future. Who knows. Merry Christmas!


	27. Scalpels (OS)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Night Shift. I am also not a doctor or a medical professional. I'm taking pathophisiology though so does that count?

Note: I'm alive! Don't worry. Nothing really happened that prevented me from posting other than my own complete laziness. After my classes ended I took the "I don't want to do ANYTHING" plunge and basically did exactly that. I will still be updating the story, don't worry! Just maybe not as regularly. Sorry about that, guys! Anyway, on to the chapter... a combination of things. He basically just takes a beating.

* * *

It all started with an explosion at a downtown warehouse. A subsequent explosion occurred a few miles north at an abandoned building. Two more on the same stretch of railroad. Naturally, the entire city went into panic mode with fear of terrorism and, of course, many injuries. Panicked family members flocked the hospital hoping to find their missing child or brother or wife. Many of the injuries were superficial, burns and cuts from shrapnel, but there were some dead on arrival and others that were closes to the blasts in critical.

TC was seeing to a young man that reeked of alcohol and cigarettes missing several fingers. He was also rather smoky. The effects of the alcohol made him jumpy, jittery and nervous. Or so TC thought, as he tried yet another dose of a calming sedative while he cleaned up the stubs. The fingers would never be found at the scene of the explosion. They had likely already been incinerated or burned beyond reattachment. It was only two fingers on his right hand, though, so the guy would be able to get along just fine once he learned to work around the injuries. The patient - what was his name again? Chris, or Carl... something with a C. The names of the previous few hours had blurred together into a vague recollection of severely burned limbs and removing shrapnel from ruined flesh. Chris, he decided, was muttering inaudibly under his breath while making frequent groans of pain and swearing. He found himself ignoring the guy as he finished stitching the last of the torn skin together, and adding a little more painkiller to the medical cocktail.

He turned to frown at the shrapnel deeply embedded in the young man's upper chest. It would take some digging to remove. Chris was also adamant that TC did as little as possible in regards to painkillers, stating he had been addicted in the past between his mutterings.

"I am going to have to cut the skin slightly to get to some of the deeper pieces," he said, although Chris didn't seem to be aware of what he said, or pretended not to hear. Without another word and hoping to get someone a little more lucid, he began to remove some of the shrapnel and drop it on the tray the nurse held. Fortunately it was quick, and he placed the scalpel down on the bed tray before looking around for more sterile sutures, having exhausted the previous kit just on the fingers.

"Just a few more stitches and you'll have an antibiotic and.." He never finished his sentence as he turned his back on his patient to grab more supplies from the cabinet.

Pain lanced across his back, blood streaking the wall beside him as a sharp blade was slashed viciously across. He staggered forward, with a muffled cry of pain as he moved one arm to his bleeding back while he grabbed the cabinet in front of him in support. Blood spilled rapidly over his fingers, and heat burned into him. He spun around in time to see Chris, holding the same scalpel he had been using earlier, slashing it at him again. He flung himself sideways, raising his arm to protect his head to avoid it, but the scalpel still bit into his hand and ripped a gash in it as he dropped to the floor.

Giving himself adequate space to avoid being cut again he pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the excruciating pain mostly in his back, and readied himself to tackle Chris to the ground.

Until Chris threw the scalpel on the floor and ripped his shirt open, revealing a terrifying patchwork of homemade explosives wrapped around his abdomen. It explained why the guy hadn't wanted TC to remove any of his clothing.

"I will blow up this entire fucking hospital!" Chris snarled in a suddenly coherent sentence. TC kept moving idly away, although at this range it wouldn't matter if he was at the other end of the room if the explosives went off. He'd still be nothing more than a smear of blood on the wall.

"Just calm down.. don't go blowing up anyone," TC said in a reasonably calm voice.

He felt a tremor in his arms as the blood flowed steadily from from the deep wound on his back. In his mind he was already trying to visualize the power of the explosives and how much of the hospital it would take out. They seemed small and hardly strewn together, although he had no idea what was in them. If it was cheap, it would take out the nearby hallway and a few rooms, but that would destabilize the entire wing of the hospital and who knew how many people were filtering down the halls at this very moment.

"Just one more," Chris said, mostly to himself, face twisted in a grimace of emotion.

It suddenly occurred to TC that Chris had been the bomber all along. He had probably lost his fingers when one of his homemade explosives went off too early.

"There are a lot of hurt and sick people here... you want to hurt them?" TC was no negotiator but he knew now it was more important than ever to at least try and prevent a literal bomb from going off in the hospital.

"No one will forget this," Chris said.

His non-injured hand tightened around a switch and he waited for the searing heat that never came. Chris's astonished, angry look was all he needed to see before the quick realization that for whatever reason the explosives didn't ignite. Faulty wiring, a bad home recipe, a broken switch. It didn't matter. What mattered was there was a delusional angry bomber in the hospital who may or may not have a backup plan.

He launched himself forward, slamming into Chris and sending them both falling to the floor. He immediately punched the would-be suicide bomber in the face, although a wildly flung hit from Chris broke the momentum and didn't hit nearly as hard as he needed to.

A knee to his chest winded him and he saw Chris's hand moving towards the scalpel that he had thrown on the floor. He rushed forward to grab it, slipping on his own blood from the bleeding wound on his hand, and only succeeded and sending the scalpel skidding far out of reach. He felt a hand around his neck, throwing him bodily sideways where he skidded into a tray which fell over from the impact. His body ached, his back exceptionally painful as the blood flowed and the skin stretched. He forced himself to stagger to his feet, wincing as his chest throbbed from the prior hit.

He heard the clicking sound of a safety going off, and looked up in time to see a gun aimed in his direction.

Chris's shaking hand threw off the aim, so it struck him near just under his collar bone close to his right shoulder. He staggered back, fresh pain overriding the adrenaline and shock overpowering his sense of self control. He slid to the ground, feeling cold as the pain raced through him. Chris left the room, and he was dimly aware of more gunshots and then screaming from people outside as his world spun. His entire back felt wet with blood, and it pooled beneath him. He raised his bloodied hand, fingers partially numb, to press onto his shoulder, only succeeded in combining the bleeding in both wounds when he lacked the strength to apply pressure.

He heard more gunshots, even more dim than before, from outside.

His eyes closed even before his arm slid back down by his side.

* * *

 **Jordan POV**

The first gunshots hit two patients and then moved wildly upward, shattering lights and causing sparks to rain down. She dove down behind the desk, huddling behind it for safety. Behind her Kenny had a grip of another nurse and pushed her down with him. He could hear people screaming and heard the footsteps of many running past her trying to escape. Bodies hit the ground as people were hit by the gun. She was vaguely aware that the man came from the room TC had taken before she heard yelling, inaudible above the screams and gunshots.

Then silence.

She looked around the corner to see an officer standing over the motionless body of the shooter, checking his pulse. As if aware the threat had passed people were running from everywhere, some shell shocked, others hurt. Nurses and doctors were already seeing to the new injured.

Fortunately it looked like a lot of people had been hit randomly, the shots wild, hitting limbs rather than bodies.

Jordan had only one thought, however, as she rose and ran around the many people to get to the room. As she passed by the shooter's body she saw the explosives strapped to him, silently wondering why he hadn't blown up half the hospital instead of shooting. A mistake? Had he not expected to be taken down so fast? Or maybe he had changed his mind? Whatever the case, she was relieved that they _hadn't_ gone off, even as she pushed the door open, expecting the worst.

The first thing she saw was a splatter of blood on the wall, before noticing several smears on the floor. She turned, momentarily frozen as she saw TC lying motionless on the floor. He was pale, bleeding from his shoulder. There was blood on his hand, on his shirt, and around the ground beneath him. She ran forward, stepping around a bloodied scalpel, before crouching down. His pulse was slow and thready. He felt cold against her hand, skin clammy. His eyes fluttered slightly in the throws of consciousness, but he didn't manage to do anything more. She wasn't sure at first where all the blood was coming from. He was bleeding sluggish from the gunshot wound, and from his hand, but he had definitely lost a lot of blood if he was in shock.

"Jordan? Oh shit," Kenny swore behind her as he saw what she was doing.

She pressed on the gunshot wound, with nothing else to do except wait until they could move him. He stirred again, but still failed to fully pull himself back into consciousness.

It wasn't until Kenny came back with a gurney and they started to lift him up that she saw the massive gash on his lower back, still pulsing blood with every beat of his heart.

* * *

He struggled to open his eyes. For such a simple thing, it was incredibly hard to do. His body seemed unwilling to do a basic response, and his eyes remained closed even as he stirred slightly. He was aware of warmth, blessedly, against his otherwise slightly cold body. He wondered idly why he was cold, as he struggled once again with his eyelids which this time slowly opened. The room was dim, as if someone had dimmed them just in case. There was a slightly dull pain in his chest, with another throbbing weakly across his back.

His eyes fell upon a mostly full blood bag streaming blood into the IV on his arm. He remembered gunshots. Screams. A burning pain. Mostly the gunshots, as they echoed through the hallway.

He wanted to get up and find out what had happened and if anyone was hurt, but opening his eyes seemed to be the greatest feat he was able to accomplish at the moment because no other muscle responded.

Until he did manage to twitch, but that only managed to sent a flare of pain through his back.

"Don't move, you'll rip your stitches and I'll yell at you." It was Jordan's voice. He paused, turning towards her voice to see that she had just walked in through the open door. She seemed unhurt, and he was relieved about that.

"How bad?" He asked.

"Fifteen stitches in your back alone-" she started.

"No, not me. How many people got hurt?" He didn't need to know about the stitches. They were already throbbing, the wound feeling hot and achy.

"Eight hurt. None dead. Well, the bomber or shooter or whatever is dead. But he's not counted in the eight," she said with clear disdain towards the dead guy.

"It's good that his detonator didn't work," he said, unwilling to say whether something was good or bad.

She gave him a weird look. "He tried to set off the bomb?"

"Yeah, in the room. It didn't go off so he took out his gun instead."

His head was starting to pound. His body was tired, but he felt more relaxed now knowing there weren't more people dead.

"I'll get you something more for the pain," Jordan said, as she saw the brief grimace on his face. She was gone before he could reply, and he fell back asleep before she was back.

* * *

End chapter note: Again, I apologize for not updating in so long! I'll probably speed up again when I rewatch the series sometime in the future, but until then I will post chapters periodically. If I'm away for some time feel free to PM me and I'll reply when I see it. Thank you all for still sticking around! Glad to see other people have been updating in the meantime.


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